


light blue and gentle

by figure8



Series: i’ll stop the world [1]
Category: K-pop, SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Constipation, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Self-Discovery, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2020-11-27 05:20:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20942912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: He asked his only real friend about it, weeks before, and Soonyoung stared at him wordless for a concerningly long time before answeringWonwoo, I think you might actually have depression.The thing is, Wonwoo is 99.9% sure his problem is less chemical imbalance in the brain and more 1 meter 83, blond, and living in Gonzaga Hall.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for _moment's silence (common tongue)_, which according to hozier himself is about conservative views on sex, particularly acts outside of what we call traditional intercourse. he clearly means oral sex here, but i extended to interpretation to gay sex and gay love in general, and wrote about the contrast between the harshness of social pressures and the outside gaze vs the intimacy and tenderness of not just gay romance but also gay friendship and solidarity. 
> 
> anyway, so as not to make this note three miles long: this is very much a story about self-discovery and internalized homophobia. it's very autobiographical on some level, and it does not aim to be universal at all. i am of the opinion that we still do need coming out narratives, so here is my attempt at one. it comes with its fair amount of sadness and confusion and fear, but it is, at its core, a happy story. i'm glad i sat down to write it. i hope you'll enjoy reading it too. 
> 
> two more things on the more practical side!  
1) this work has been completed at the time of posting. there are two subsequent chapters that will be uploaded relatively soon.  
2) here's a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/thedeadrobin/playlist/0pvXgEOwtP00o50Aby5Ayr?si=SMPrP9cXRzqMw1fhirT_DA), for those of you who are into that kind of thing ♪~ ᕕ(ᐛ)ᕗ
> 
> _for my favorite gemini venus and my favorite cancer sun_ ❤️

_ our hands are light blue and gentle _

_ our eyes are full of terrible confessions _

— anne sexton

  
  
  


Wonwoo isn’t quite sure of how his life took such a drastic turn in such little time. In early September he was getting ready to start his second year at Sogang University, and his entire existence revolved around his undergraduate degree in Literature and his position on the Overwatch leaderboard. It’s February, middle of the week, roughly four in the morning, and he’s outside on the other side of campus from his dorm smoking a menthol cigarette with his sweater on the wrong way. He has an essay due in exactly eighteen hours and thirty-seven minutes and he hasn’t looked at the prompt paper even once. His phone keeps vibrating in his pocket with unread messages. 

He asked his only real friend about it, weeks before, and Soonyoung stared at him wordless for a concerningly long time before answering _ Wonwoo, I think you might actually have depression. _The thing is, Wonwoo is 99.9% sure his problem is less chemical imbalance in the brain and more 1 meter 83, blond, and living in Gonzaga Hall. 

He doesn’t really remember how he started sleeping with Wen Junhui. Or, well—he does, but it does not make any sense, so he keeps turning it in his head like a Rubik's cube. Maybe he’ll crack the code one day, if he just manages to align all the information correctly at once. For now it’s a jumbled mess of over-indulging in soju cocktails that one night and the boy he only knew as _ Minghao’s friend _back then crowding him up against the bathroom door. Somewhere in there Wonwoo needs to fit the fact he knew Junhui before that fated evening, from their one shared History class during the Fall semester. It matters, sort of. 

It all comes down to this: Junhui looks at him, head tilted and hips flush against Wonwoo’s, arms on each side of Wonwoo’s head like Greek columns and says _ You’ve been staring at my ass every day since classes started _and Wonwoo’s stomach twists and he fishes for an excuse and splutters and Junhui grabs him by the jaw and kisses him and swallows down every mangled word. 

Months later, nicotine his only companion, Wonwoo can’t go back to his room because his roommate might actually kill him but he also could not stay over at Junhui’s because they simply do not _ do _that, so he’s stuck in the snow in the middle of the night. There is something particularly unsettling about knowing what the inside of Junhui’s mouth tastes like but not what he looks like when he wakes up in the morning. 

Cold seeps through Wonwoo’s bones, liquid and harsh. He crushes the butt of his cigarette under the sole of his boot and huffs, condensation forming in the air. It’s dark out still but there are a few street lights on, making the atmosphere weirdly _ nice. _Very Hollywood Christmas movie, snowflakes slowly falling from the crying sky, soft yellow glow, not a star in sight. 

*

They fuck for the first time on Halloween. Well, they don’t _ fuck _ exactly, but Junhui does bring him home with the intent to, Wonwoo is quite sure. He’s too anxious once the door slams shut, hands febrile on the buttons of Junhui’s dress shirt. _ I’ve never—I don’t— _

Junhui, Wonwoo learns that very first night, is many things but not an asshole, or not _ that _ kind of asshole. He wraps a gentle grip around Wonwoo’s wrist and soothes the shaking, kisses him slow and soft before dropping to his knees. _ Let me show you, _except he doesn’t voice it. Wonwoo guesses it anyway. 

It doesn’t feel that much different than with girls. A blowjob is a blowjob, and skill, Wonwoo supposes, matters much more than gender. _ Skill _ is something Junhui possesses in abundance, and Wonwoo nearly brains himself against the wall behind him. Junhui swallows, which is something Wonwoo’s ex-girlfriend never did. After, palms burning on Woonwoo’s thighs he looks up, lips red and eyes dark. It makes Wonwoo’s belly constrict even though he’s all spent, _ something _stirring. 

They fuck for real days later—not even a _ week _ later, Jesus—Wonwoo still awfully confused but also hungry, starved; Junhui a world at his fingertips. Junhui preps himself while Wonwoo watches, talks Wonwoo through it like it’s an educational YouTube video and not foreplay. Except at some point his voice goes raspy and Wonwoo lunges to kiss him and after that Junhui forgets all about _ teaching _ until he’s seated on Wonwoo’s dick and has to instruct him on how and when to move because apparently Wonwoo lost his mental capacities somewhere between Junhui putting the condom on him and Junhui moaning _ fuck, you’re big. _

Wonwoo hates thinking of it as an _ education, _ but for a while at least there is no other way of putting it—especially since Junhui is an idiot who keeps referring to himself as Wonwoo’s Gay Sex Senpai, which is in terrible taste considering neither one of them speaks Japanese, although not for lack of trying on Wonwoo’s part. The point is, at first sex with Junhui is equal parts pleasure and discovery, and Junhui might be insufferable and smug and generally really fucking weird but he’s kind about all of it, never laughs _ at _Wonwoo, only with him. It makes it easy, when they’re together. It makes it easier. 

When Wonwoo is back in his dorm room alone though, the smoothness of Junhui’s touch a phantom memory, things are hard again. Wonwoo spends hours staring at nothing—his ceiling, his black computer screen, textbooks he’s supposed to be reading—and wondering what it all means. He likes girls, he’s almost sure. Likes how pretty they are, the brightness of their smiles, the clear sound of their laughter. He likes how girls feel under him, he likes kissing girls, and holding hands, and the intricate rituals of courtship, and he loves what comes after too. The _ claiming, _ the awful satisfaction of slinging an arm over a girl’s shoulders to tell the world _ hey, I earned this. She likes me. _

He and Junhui don’t hang out outside of Junhui’s room very often but in the rare occasions they do Wonwoo finds himself wondering what it would be like, if he could hold Junhui’s hand, bring it to his lips to press an aerial kiss to the back. Would Junhui giggle? Would he blush? 

Other questions haunt him, too. Mainly they revolve around this terrible, terrible craving; how Wonwoo cannot seem to get enough of Junhui, cannot seem to be able to _ stop _ even now that he’s basically certain the whole thing is making him develop a stress ulcer. He’s back in that room in a breath _ every _ time Junhui texts. If he says no it’s because his schedule won’t allow for a break, and lately even that has stopped mattering. Case in point: Wonwoo’s midterm for _ Survey of Southeast Asian Literature. _ He _ could _have worked on that and earned an easy A, and he loves that class, but instead he was busy letting Junhui coach him through the art of rimming, and now he has less than a day to write an entire paper and he still cannot focus on anything that isn’t the sounds Junhui makes when he’s close. Wonwoo hasn’t been this obsessed with sex since middle school. 

*

Early in their _ relationship—_Wonwoo doesn’t want to call it a relationship, because that word carries implications, but he doesn’t know what else he can use. Friendship also implies a whole other set of rules that definitely do _ not _ apply here, and he and Junhui _ are _ maintaining _ some _sort of relations, so relationship it is. Anyway. Early in their relationship Wonwoo turned his head at some point to stare at the empty well-made bed on the other side of Junhui’s dorm room and thought to ask about it. 

“Oh,” Junhui had shrugged, “My roommate is almost never here. He stays with his boyfriend most of the time, because he has an apartment in Mapo.”

Wonwoo would put two and two together a few days later and realise Junhui’s roommate is actually Minghao, but right at the second he was too overwhelmed with the concept of Junhui’s roommate having a boyfriend _ and _Junhui talking about it with such ease and familiarity. Which made sense, Wonwoo supposed. On campus foreigners hung out by nationality, not out of xenophobia but because in a sea of strangers any glimmer of recognition is reassuring. Maybe being gay was like that too. He’d want someone who would get it, if it was him. He’d want friends he wouldn’t have to hide from. 

“You shouldn’t say stuff like that,” he had told Junhui anyway. Junhui had frowned, confused. 

“Like what?”

“Like,” Wonwoo had gestured, “_That. _You don’t know how people will react.” 

“Oh,” Junhui had said, smile dropping a little. “I don’t—I wouldn’t _ out _ anyone to—I just figured _ you _wouldn’t care.”

It had made Wonwoo’s chest tighten uncomfortably, hand of stone through his ribcage. “I’m not a homophobe,” he’d said low, the tiniest bit defensive. Junhui had scoffed, gestured to the space between their bare bodies. 

“Yeah, as I said, I figured.” 

It still hadn’t clicked in Wonwoo’s brain then. That Junhui already considered him _ one of them. _

*

Wonwoo thinks it’s okay to have his sexuality crisis at age 21. He turns it over and over in his head, considers the possibility of denial, but really, he cannot remember liking another boy before Junhui. He had platonic crushes, maybe—hyungs he admired embarrassingly, classmates he wanted to impress, best friends he included in his definition of family—but no one he ever wanted to pin to a wall and _ ruin. _And God, he wants to do everything with Junhui. It’s absolutely devastating, how the mere thought of him activates something animal within Wonwoo, lights a fire he never knows how to calm. Flames lick along walls and his rationality goes up in smoke, all measure forgotten. 

It’s so strange and unexpected he genuinely does not start thinking of it as a _ crisis _ until he’s in way too deep. Wonwoo is a scholar in the making, dedicated to academic work even now that his grades are tanking, and so he does his research. The word _ internalized _ comes up often enough that it engraves into his brain, but it’s not a satisfactory explanation as to why Wonwoo didn’t start questioning the fact maybe he wasn’t as straight as he initially thought he was until _ months _into having sex with Junhui. He remembers feeling deep shame when Junhui pointed out he had noticed Wonwoo staring but he apparently had taken that and shoved it in a metaphorical box and then had metaphorically set that box on fire and never cleaned up the ashes. 

Which means that he gets hit with multiple problems at once right in the face: one, he likes boys, and two, he likes _ one _ boy; and combined together it is monumental, gigantic. It weighs like a stone at the bottom of his stomach, a constant sickness, to the point where on some days it’s hard getting out of bed. He misses class a few times, which he has never done before, not even during that one week in high school where he caught pneumonia and didn’t realize and had to be hospitalized over the weekend. He forgets to sign out of his dorm at some point and it’s so unbelievably stupid, getting penalty points not even because he was staying over somewhere or partying but because he didn’t want to see the inside of his hall or his roommate’s curious eyes and went straight to a bar after seeing Junhui and then missed curfew like some sort of rookie. It’s an accumulation of things like that, that tell him it is a _ crisis. _

In the middle of all that Junhui doesn’t seem to notice anything is wrong with him, which Wonwoo wishes he could hate him for. The issue is that one, Junhui doesn’t really know what Wonwoo is like when he’s not drunk and/or going through sex frenzy and two, Junhui never pretended they were anything remotely close to friends and thus does not owe Wonwoo any type of concern. 

Still, at his lowest point Wonwoo aches for comfort, for Junhui to turn to him worry etched on his face in the way Wonwoo knows is reserved for Minghao and probably a bunch of other people Wonwoo is unaware of, and ask _ hey, are you okay? _He doesn’t think he would tell the truth, but it would feel nice, he thinks. 

It sounds pathetic put like that, because Wonwoo does not lack people who care about him. His parents love him. He has a decent relationship with his brother. Back home he had a lot of friends, and if he had put more effort into it he thinks he would have a lot of friends here too, but Soonyoung is enough, most of the time. It’s different with Junhui somehow. Wonwoo wants Junhui to like him more, more, always more. He resents Junhui for that too, in a way, and it always comes back to that: he wishes he could hate him, but even hatred is a hot emotion, an emotion that takes up too much space and too much energy. 

Soonyoung does ask him what’s wrong, multiple times, each with increasing concern. Wonwoo replies as truthfully as he can: that he doesn’t know, that he’s trying to figure it out. Soonyoung never looks quite satisfied with his answers, but he knows not to push, which is why their friendship works. He offers to take Wonwoo out for food, but Wonwoo knows he’ll be expected to fork out more information in exchange for Soonyoung’s generosity, so he politely refuses with some bullshit excuse about needing to go to the library. The fourth time Soonyoung gets the message. 

“You’re isolating,” he tells Wonwoo accusingly. “You did that freshman year too when you had that existential crisis about changing majors.” 

Wonwoo does not like how close to the truth he is. How far, too. “I promise I’m just tired.” 

“Then come over to Seokmin’s next Saturday,” Soonyoung extends a peace offering. “It’ll be fun. Nothing big or fancy, just a few people, and only guys you know.”

“No girls?” Wonwoo hears himself asking. Soonyoung chortles. 

“It’s not that kind of party. Jeon Wonwoo, are you on the market again? Thought you said you wanted to focus on your degree first.”

“I was just curious,” Wonwoo says, looking away. “I’m not on the market.” 

Maybe he should be, actually. Maybe the cure to all this is soft hands and loving eyes. 

Junhui has soft hands, Wonwoo thinks absently. Loving eyes too, probably, surely. When he’s around the right people.

“I’ll come,” he tells Soonyoung. “Will Moon Joonhwi be there?”

“Well,” Soonyoung squints, “It’s Seokmin, so I expect to see Myungho. And if he’s somewhere Joonhwi is usually there too.” 

Wonwoo doesn’t tell Soonyoung Junhui talks about his best friend so much Wonwoo can only think of him by his Chinese name now, in Junhui’s voice. He still calls Junhui _ Joonhwi _to others, the casual distance of a name Junhui doesn’t really use outside of class a comforting barrier. Junhui taught him how to pronounce his name perfectly the same night he taught Wonwoo how to suck cock. Both had been a strain on Wonwoo’s jaw. Both had been extremely rewarding.

*

Junhui usually texts him in increments, one word at a time. Objectively he’s annoying. He uses a surreal amount of emoticons and stickers and he has no shame about making someone’s phone ring eighteen times in a row. Subjectively it’s endearing. Wonwoo soberly saves him in his contacts under his full Korean name, his profile picture a stolen candid of Junhui ordering bubble tea at the place close to campus that makes strawberry milk tea just the way he likes it. His profile is sharp, a contrast with his soft shiny blond hair peeking from his hoodie. It should not be as nice, considering he bleaches it constantly to maintain the color, but Wonwoo has had his hands in it a _ lot, _and can confirm it feels as good as it looks. 

Junhui sends him seven messages at once on Saturday morning before that friendly gathering Wonwoo was conned into attending. They are all expressing various states of excitement over Wonwoo finally joining them in group activities, something Wonwoo doesn’t particularly remembers Junhui ever bringing up before. Their social circles overlap, but not completely. Wonwoo knows Minghao from a group project from first year, but Seokmin is Soonyoung’s friend, and Minghao and Seokmin are attached at the hip, and Junhui and Minghao are siblings in everything but blood. 

Wonwoo shoots back a smiley face and a cat sticker, because Junhui is like a child and you need to use flashing effects and bright colors to entertain him. It seems to do the trick, because his iPhone stays suspiciously quiet after that. 

His phone pings again an hour later as he’s about to leave his dorm room. _ have u seen my green scarf_, Junhui’s text reads, and Wonwoo furrows his brows at his screen. He knows what scarf Junhui is referring to, but there are many other people with higher odds of localizing it. Except… he scans the room to be safe and there it is, hanging inconspicuously from the headboard of Wonwoo’s bed. Concentrating on it he remembers Junhui lending it to him a few days ago because he forgot his in Soonyoung’s car. 

_ Got it, _he sends Junhui a picture of the garment raised victoriously. Junhui replies with 20 yellow hearts. Wonwoo folds the scarf carefully and puts it in his messenger bag alongside the two bottles of soju he’s bringing just so he doesn’t show up empty-handed, because his mama raised a polite boy. 

*

The second time they have sex Junhui looks him in the eye afterwards, his come still on Wonwoo’s abs, and says _ hey, I’m not really looking to date right now. _ To which Wonwoo’s broken brain replies _ ah, me neither. _

Wonwoo was never really one for casual sex. He had _ tried, _ after breaking up with his high school girlfriend over uni entrance exam stress, and it had just ended up stressing him more, which in turn made him insufferable and impossible to date, which was a vicious circle. But having sex with men—having sex with _ Junhui_—, he could keep that completely separate from feelings, he’d figured. It felt good, but it didn’t have to get complicated. Looking back this was probably were he made the fatal mistake of thinking _ fucking _men wasn’t gay as long as he wasn’t in love with them. Even if that had been true—and Wonwoo might be going through a rough patch but he isn’t that stupid—Wonwoo has never been able to not develop some sort of attachment to the human beings he sleeps with, so he was doomed from the start. 

The point is, Junhui unknowingly offers him a comfortable out, and Wonwoo takes it. They fuck, and they get fast food together, and they greet each other when they cross paths on campus, and they laugh agreeably when they find themselves in common spaces because of common friends. It’s all very compartmentalized, and Lord knows Wonwoo likes organization. 

Wonwoo also likes fucking things up for himself, as demonstrated during his junior year of high school where he had a nervous breakdown and burned down his physics notebook before declaring he refused to go into STEM. It feels a little bit like that, losing the grip on his sanity, realizing he _ likes _ Junhui in a way that extends further than getting his dick wet. Reality is unavoidable like a stone: Junhui is a man and Wonwoo is in love with him, or well on his way there. There is another complication, that Junhui does not return his feelings, but that is, hilariously, the smallest of Wonwoo’s problems. He’s content soaking up Junhui’s warmth for now. He’ll cross _ that _bridge when he gets to it, and at this rhythm he’s going to have a coronary from all the anxiety way before it becomes relevant. 

*

It’s only a fifteen minutes bus ride to Gongdeok station, but then it’s another fifteen on foot to Seokmin’s apartment, uphill, and Wonwoo gets caught in the rain. When he finally knocks on the door he looks like a wet cat, miserable and soaked through. It’s Minghao who opens the door, takes one good look at him and yells “Junhui, grab a towel!” before tugging Wonwoo in hastily by the sleeve of his leather jacket. 

“It’s the middle of Winter,” Junhui greets him with accusingly in lieu of hello, before aggressively toweling Wonwoo’s hair, “You didn’t think to wear a coat or at least carry an umbrella?” 

“I’m fine,” Wonwoo protests weakly. He’s not fine. He can feel the beginning of a cough at the back of his throat, clawing uncomfortably. “I brought your scarf.”

Junhui glares at him harder. “And you didn’t _ wear it_?”

“It’s your scarf,” Wonwoo says. “Okay, I just forgot about it,” he amends when Junhui swats him with the towel. 

“Come in, I’ll make you tea.”

Junhui does that. Exists in places like he owns them, like he’s lived in them forever. It’s Seokmin’s flat but Junhui breezes through it like it’s his childhood home, grabs a mug and sits Wonwoo down on a high stool in the kitchen while he puts water in the boiler. In the living room Wonwoo can hear laughter. He’s not in a hurry to find out who’s there. 

“Ginger,” Junhui slides the steaming cup towards him, tea bag tied nicely around the handle. He used to work at a coffee shop and picked up the habit. “And lemon. Good to prevent colds.” 

He still says his _ O_s the Chinese way, even now that his Korean is perfect, practised. Wonwoo wants to reach out and smooth the line of worry on his forehead. 

“Come see the others, Wonwoo-ya,” Junhui says, two fingers furtive on the inside of Wonwoo’s wrist. 

Seokmin’s place is adorable, but he can only afford it because it is _ tiny. _The living room was initially a second bedroom, but he repurposed it after his old roommate left. Wonwoo knows Seokmin makes rent partly because Minghao pays his utilities, but he’s not supposed to know: Junhui let it slip one time, sleepy, when he was explaining Minghao’s living arrangement again. 

_ He needs to keep this room, _ he’d told Wonwoo, gesturing around them. _ Otherwise his parents will ask questions. But he basically lives with Seokmin. _

_ How does that work? _ Wonwoo had asked. _ How has he not gotten expelled yet? _

_ I cover for him, _ Junhui had smiled, simple as that. _ Beep his card every night and every morning he’s not there alongside mine. _

Wonwoo wonders if Soonyoung would ever do that for him. He’d have to have a really good reason, maybe. He thinks about it for a second, projects. He wouldn’t want to live with Junhui anyway—Junhui is terrible to live with. Wonwoo shakes his head to physically clear his mind. 

There are seven boys piling up in the tiny living room, most of them hanging on Seokmin’s battered second-hand sofa. Soonyoung waves at him, and so does Mingyu. They roomed together during Wonwoo’s first year, and have been in good friendly terms since, although Wonwoo does not seek out Mingyu of his own initiative, and Mingyu is too busy with football on top of classes to ever try and catch up. They do share a few courses, though, and it’s always reassuring to know that if worse comes to worse and there is group work to do Wonwoo can count on Mingyu to basically let him do all the planning, which is the part he hates trying to divide with people. 

He knows Joshua the American exchange student, but only vaguely. Then there’s Jeonghan, who’s friends with Wonwoo’s current roommate, a fact Wonwoo couldn’t miss if he tried because Jeonghan is over so often Wonwoo thought _ he _was the roommate the week following Move-In Day. 

With Wonwoo that’s eight people in a space definitely designed for less, but they make it work. Seokmin alighs the bottles everyone brought on the coffee table like a pirate admiring his bounty, and Minghao brings out a tray with small ceramic cups for soju. They pass the alcohol around, but Wonwoo refuses his turn, nursing his tea instead. Junhui shoots him a look of fond approval. 

All in all, it is a pleasant evening. Joshua teaches them how to pronounce things in English for about thirty minutes and Seokmin is so bad at it but so enthusiastically into the whole thing that he becomes a spectacle by himself. Minghao watches him with tender eyes, hand on Seokmin’s forearm like a loose bracelet. Everyone in the room _ has _to know, even though objectively they do not touch each other more than other boys do. It’s in Minghao’s gaze, mainly. Minghao has eyes that do not lie. 

By the end of the night everyone but Wonwoo is drunk. Wonwoo did swap his tea for soju at some point, but he didn’t have nearly as much as the others, only feels nicely buzzed. Mingyu is a loud drunk, falling over himself, but Wonwoo already knew that from a year of living with him. Jeonghan loops an arm under his armpit, flashes a grin to Minghao who’s observing Mingyu make a fool of himself with both fondness and exasperation on his face. 

“I’ll walk him to his room, we’re on the same floor.” 

Joshua, like most international students, also lives in Gonzaga Hall. He offers Junhui a cab ride, because he apparently has money to throw from windows, but Junhui declines politely. 

“I’m gonna stay a bit with Hao, help clean up,” he shakes his head. He looks right at Wonwoo after, though, and Wonwoo feels a shiver run down his spine. 

“Me too,” he adds, even though he’s not quite sure Junhui’s words had a hidden meaning. 

“Okay,” Joshua says, gaze trailing between the two of them. He smiles big, puts on his nice European coat. “See you then, guys. Seokmin, thanks for having us. Wonwoo, don’t be a stranger. I like you.” 

“Oh,” Wonwoo looks down at his shoes, “Okay. Uh, thanks.” 

Soonyoung kisses Wonwoo’s cheek as he leaves, an old joke, but there is affection bleeding through. He’s a clingy drunk. Wonwoo wraps an arm around his waist and Soonyoung slumps against him, mumbles something incomprehensible into Wonwoo’s neck. It tickles, and Wonwoo giggles, and then Soonyoung is laughing too. Maybe Wonwoo had more than he thought, because his body is warm and light and his limbs feel like cotton candy. He’s happy, he realizes belatedly. He hasn’t felt like this in a while. 

When Junhui slams the door shut behind Soonyoung he turns around and rests his back against it, beckons Wonwoo closer. One finger hooked in Wonwoo’s belt loop he pulls him in, kisses him on the mouth. Wonwoo whines, pliant. Junhui tastes like soju and the pink gum he chews on all the time, fruity and sweet. In the badly lit corridor it’s effortless to bend down and kiss him again, and again, until Wonwoo’s lips feel raw. 

*

With almost everyone gone Seokmin’s place looks bigger, less cramped but also more adult. Wonwoo lets his eyes trail around, from his spot on the single armchair in the living room. He notices Seokmin’s books nicely arranged on the white Ikea bookshelf, the spines color-coded. Minghao’s multiple cameras take up a whole shelf, dead giveaway that he lives here too. There is a framed photo on the wall, black and white, Seokmin and Mingyu laughing under the rain, hair plastered to their heads, completely unaware they’re being photographed. Minghao’s affection transpired through the lens, lending the picture an air of tender nostalgia. 

Junhui pulled two chairs earlier so that everyone could sit and he hasn’t moved them yet, is perched on one of them like a kitten, sitting on his feet. Minghao is restless, gathering greasy food wrappers and cups in a pile. 

“I need a tray,” he frowns.

Seokmin hooks a hand on the inside of Minghao’s thigh, brings him closer, grin brighter than the sun. Minghao comes easy. 

“Jagiya,” Seokmin says, smooth as butter, “I’ll do the dishes later, just sit down.” 

Minghao kisses the top of his head and obeys, folds himself against Seokmin’s side on the old leather sofa. 

Wonwoo’s insides are like a boat at sea. He’s very aware that it’s rude to stare but he cannot stop himself. The chair between him and Junhui suddenly feels like the Great Wall of China, or maybe even the fortified border between the North and the South. It’s a small space. He could reach, touch Junhui’s arm. He could learn how to say _ my love _ in Chinese, have it roll off his tongue with the same ease as he says _ hello _ or _ goodbye. _ There has to be a universe out there where _ he _gets to have that, no complexity, no existential questions; just this strange sense of peace that Minghao irradiates constantly. None of them have anything really figured out, but in this small apartment all secrets bared Wonwoo thinks some of them still have it together more than others. Seokmin is messy in every sense of the term, a hurricane of misplaced energy and confidence that only ever exists in sudden bursts, and yet like this he looks more assured than Wonwoo could ever hope to be in his life. Being loved like that, by someone ready to brave parental wrath and social ostracism for the simple privilege of resting their head on your shoulder as Minghao is doing right now, it must change a man. It must give a man wings. 

“Everyone talked shop but you,” Minghao points out. “How are classes going?”

“I don’t really wanna talk about it,” Wonwoo looks away, the back of his neck heating up. 

“Hyung,” Seokmin frowns, biting his bottom lip, “Do you need help with anything?”

“No offense,” Wonwoo huffs, “But I don’t think our fields of expertise meet anywhere in the middle.”

Seokmin blushes, but he’s smiling. “Well, theater and literature do have a lot in common,” he defends himself. 

“Leave the writing to me, Seokmin-ah,” Wonwoo shakes his head. “But thank you. Everything’s fine, I’m just exhausted.” 

“I’ll make sure he sleeps better,” Junhui chimes in. “I can knock him out if need be.”

“Please don’t go around hitting people over the head,” Minghao rolls his eyes. Junhui just looks very enticed by the whole thing, which is never a good sign. 

“For their own good!” he insists. He turns to Wonwoo then, and his eyes are soft. “At least let me cook for you once in a while. I’ll borrow Seokkie’s kitchen, he doesn’t mind. I’ll bring you tupperwares.”

“You don’t have to,” Wonwoo protests, bringing his knees to his chest. Warmth pours through his bones like syrup, heavy and sticky and sweet. It felt like that, too, when Junhui made him tea. 

“You subsist entirely on dry noodles like the stupid college student that you are,” Junhui chastises him. Minghao cackles. “No wonder you look like a zombie.”

“I’m very smart,” Wonwoo says. “Top of my class, usually.” 

“I know,” Junhui smiles. “You need to feed the brain.”

At the door again he drags his hand up Wonwoo’s forearm and holds him by the elbow, kisses him for no reason, like it’s something they do all the time. Seokmin sees, and for a millisecond Wonwoo panics, acid flooding his stomach, but Seokmin doesn’t even blink, just leans his shoulder against the wall and tells them to hurry before they miss the last bus. 

“Let’s just take a taxi,” Junhui whispers conspiratorially when the door has locked behind them, still in Wonwoo’s space, although respectably not holding him anymore. “I’m lazy and I have enough on my Tmoney card.”

“We’ll split the fare,” Wonwoo nods, but when the car drops them off in front of the main gate Junhui refuses the stack of 1000 bills Wonwoo tries to put in his hand. 

“Have a good night, Wonwoo-ya,” he says, gently pushing Wonwoo towards the direction of his dorm. “I’ll see you soon.” 

*

“You look better,” Soonyoung tells him in the week that follows when they meet up in front of the library for a study session. 

“Joonwhi has been force-feeding me vegetables,” Wonwoo says honestly. 

“Whatever it is,” Soonyoung appraises him appreciatively, “It’s working.” 

Wonwoo still wakes up every morning with a typhoon in its infancy at the pit of his stomach. In a way Junhui deciding they’re real friends now has helped, because he forgets everything in Junhui’s presence, but in another way it is much worse because like a rubber band stretched to its limits, every time Junhui leaves he snaps back into position, harder and harder. The repetition is making him lose his elasticity. 

“Have you ever been in love?” he asks Soonyoung as they’re making their way up the stairs, spontaneous in a way he knows he’s going to regret in a minute. 

“Huh?” Soonyoung blinks absently. 

“In love. Have you ever been?”

“I don’t know,” Soonyoung says earnestly. “Maybe. I liked this one girl an awful lot, in high school.” They’re on the floor they usually go to but staying in the hall so they can talk out loud. “She didn’t really care about me, though,” Soonyoung continues, biting the inside of his cheek in concentration, “And I don’t think you can really be in love when you’re not, you know. With someone.” 

Wonwoo takes a deep breath. “What about when you’re not really with someone, but you kind of are at the same time.”

Soonyoung squints at him. “Wonwoo, what’s going on?” 

_ Ah, _ Wonwoo thinks, _ here comes the regret. _

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, readjusts his school bag. “Forget it, let’s go.” 

Soonyoung grabs him by the wrist to prevent him from pushing the glass door open. 

“No, tell me what’s wrong.” 

“I’m sleeping with someone,” Wonwoo hisses, low. “Okay? Let’s just—we can’t talk about it here.”

Rather than releasing him, Soonyoung tugs him away from the door altogether. “Let’s go for a walk, Wonwoo-ya.” 

It’s too cold outside for crowds to amass the way they usually do on the nice little flower path that slithers through campus. Wonwoo is grateful for that. He doesn’t think he could handle both Soonyoung prodding gaze and the swarm of people at the same time. 

“You can tell me things, you know,” his best friend says gravely. Wonwoo sinks his front teeth into his bottom lip. 

“I did not seem very relevant at first,” he lies. 

“Clearly it’s been on your mind,” Soonyoung counters. 

For a second Wonwoo considers telling him the whole truth. It really does last just a second, though. The intense sting of shame brings him back to his senses, his guts contorting like a sick snake. 

“You’re in love with that girl?” Soonyoung asks, voice suddenly kinder. The fact he didn’t even think to question gender tells Wonwoo all he needs to know. The horrible sinking feeling gets worse. 

“I don’t know,” he repeats. “I did everything wrong and out of order anyway so it doesn’t matter.” 

“You should tell her,” Soonyoung says, serious. “Clearly.” 

Wonwoo zips up his jacket up to his chin. The wind is traitorous. 

“I think it’s best if I stop seeing her.” 

He imagines Junhui as a girl for a beat. She’d have long hair, he chooses. Blond still, except she’d get it done at a salon instead of her dorm room’s sink like male Junhui does to save a buck. If Junhui was a girl Wonwoo would have approached her the very first day of class, confidence levels shot by how pretty she’d be, but he would have faked his way through it. In this universe Wonwoo just picked the seat right behind Junhui and proceeded to blatantly stare at him for a month and a half before Junhui took the matter into his own hands. 

“Won’t that just make you sadder?”

“Clean cut,” Wonwoo says. He’s coming up with that plan on the spot. “In the long term, that’s always better.” 

“I think running from your feelings is cowardly,” Soonyoung says. He’s honest to the point of cruelty sometimes, and Wonwoo has always been aware of that, but he’s never been a victim of it before. 

“I guess,” he says, hiding the hurt behind a shrug. “I’ll take the coward’s way this time.”

*

In many ways Wonwoo knows Junhui better than he knows friends he met almost a decade ago. In many others he doesn’t know Junhui at all. 

He knows what Junhui looks like when he’s about to come, cheeks flushed, head thrown back. He knows what Junhui sounds like when he’s being fingered, the soft little _ ah_s he doesn’t seem to notice he’s making, how pretty he moans for more. He knows what Junhui tastes like, everywhere, _ everywhere. _Has licked the inside of his mouth, has sucked his cock, has spent what felt like hours between his thighs. 

He doesn’t know what Junhui’s favorite color is. He doesn’t know anything about his family. He knows Junhui’s friends, but only insofar as they were Wonwoo’s acquaintances before he knew Junhui anyway. He knows what Junhui studies (Communications), but not when he fell in love with it, and how, and what he dreams of doing with his degree. 

He knows how Junhui takes his tea. He knows that Junhui talks to cats like they’re adult human beings, none of that baby gibberish shit. He knows that when he’s sad Junhui curls up into a ball in a corner of his bed and watches Chinese dramas on his phone. He knows Junhui loves Minghao like a brother, would do anything for him. He knows Junhui likes it here, wants to stay after he’s done with school, but misses China intensely, spends hours on Skype with his mom. 

He knows Junhui is gay, has never even been with a girl, has known since he was a child and didn’t understand the word for it. Junhui told Wonwoo that in the dark one night, hushed, voice weirdly strained. He knows Junhui thinks the world is wrong and the world owes him more than he’s ever going to get, and it scares Wonwoo shitless, because he’s right, but that’s a very dangerous mindset to have. 

He knows, in an abstract sort of way, that Junhui sleeps with other people, and cares for all of them deeply, but doesn’t love them. 

He doesn’t know if Junhui ever got his heart broken, and he doesn’t know how Junhui will react to Wonwoo putting an end to things, whatever _ things _means. He’s not eager to find out.

*

“Oh,” Junhui says. 

“Yeah,” Wonwoo grimaces. Junhui stares at him harder. 

“But why?”

Wonwoo looks down at his boots. The laces are uneven. He looks back up at Junhui. “I just don’t really—want to, anymore.” The lie passes his throat like a puzzle piece that does not fit. “And I’m behind on school,” he adds, which really does sound like the most pathetic excuse out loud, “I need to focus on that.”

“You don’t want to,” Junhui repeats, flat. His expression is unreadable. 

“Yeah,” Wonwoo says once more. He rubs the back of his neck, shifts his weight on one foot. 

Junhui’s knuckles are pale where he’s holding the back of his desk chair. Wonwoo regrets doing this in his room, because now he needs an escape plan, but he has already given up on any sort of dignified exit. At the same time, it’s always been in this room, the entirety of this _ thing _they had. So it’s only fair. 

“You’re not telling me the truth,” Junhui says, speckles of hurt in his tone. Despair bleeds into the edge of Wonwoo’s vision. He doesn’t think he can do this if Junhui doesn’t _ let _him. 

Deep breath, he says it again, modulates his voice to be as firm as possible. “I’m sorry, Jun-ah.” The nickname slips out against his will, round and easy on Wonwoo’s tongue. “This is just not working out for me anymore.”

“Okay,” Junhui says. He’s still gripping the chair too tight. Wonwoo wants to take his hands, gently unwrap his fingers from the plastic. “It’s—whatever you need, obviously. I’ll, uh, see you? Around?”

“Sure,” Wonwoo says. His voice is hoarse now. If he cries in front of Junhui he thinks he might actually have to commit ritual suicide. “Sure, of course,” he says, and hurries outside.

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please skip to the end notes for detailed information on potentially upsetting/triggering content in this chapter. i don’t believe an lgbt character’s struggle is ever a “plot twist”, and as such i don’t think your reading experience will be ruined by knowing some things in advance; how you choose to approach this is up to you <3 
> 
> i hope you enjoy this update!!

_ after all we, are nothing more or less than what we choose to reveal. _

— sylvia plath

  
  
  
  


Soonyoung takes one look at him and just _ knows. _

“Wonwoo-ya,” he says quietly. “Come on, let’s go get ice cream.”

It’s still freezing outside, terrible weather for any cold food, but Woonwoo lets himself be dragged to the nearest 7-Eleven. Soonyoung picks a large container of Neapolitan and pays for it, Wonwoo trailing behind him, wordless. 

“You’re uncharacteristically quiet,” Soonyoung remarks as he beeps them both into Bellarmino Hall. “Did you really break up with her?”

“We weren’t together,” Wonwoo says numbly. Soonyoung calls the elevator, but he presses the button for the 4th floor. Wonwoo lives on the 8th. 

“My roommate isn’t here,” he explains. “Also, I have real spoons I smuggled in from the cafeteria.” 

They settle on Soonyoung’s bed, the carton of ice cream between them. Soonyoung’s side of the room is decorated in such stark contrast with his roommate’s it always caches Wonwoo by surprise, no matter how many times he’s been in their room. Wonwoo grabs the stuffed tiger Soonyoung uses as an extra pillow and cuddles it close to his chest. Soonyoung arches a concerned eyebrow. 

“Wow. That bad?”

“I don’t know,” Wonwoo says sincerely. “I feel very weird.”

The plush tiger smells like Soonyoung’s laundry detergent, a reassuring and soft lavender scent. Wonwoo hugs it tighter. 

“That answers your question,” Soonyoung says. Wonwoo frowns, confused, so he elaborates, “About being in love.”

Wonwoo experiences a flash of nausea. “I don’t know,” he says again. “I really… I would really rather not.”

“Feelings don’t kill,” Soonyoung rolls his eyes, but his voice is kind around the edges. “It sucks right now, but it’s okay to be in love, Wonwoo-ya. It’s nice, actually.”

He’s clearly missing vital information. Wonwoo takes another spoonful of Neapolitan. The pink mixes with the chocolate, fruity flavor soothed by the dark cream. 

“It’s, uh, Junhui,” Woonwoo says. Quick, like ripping off a bandaid. “It was Junhui that I was sleeping with, not a girl.”

“Oh,” Soonyoung says. He takes a moment to process it. Wonwoo can almost hear the wiring in his brain. 

It’s an awful sort of silence. With every second that passes Wonwoo realizes he loves Soonyoung, really loves him, and he doesn’t think he will make it through this if his best friend is the price to pay. 

“Say something,” he says, small. 

“Oh,” Soonyoung repeats. Then, “Fuck, shit. Wonwoo, hey, I don’t care.” He turns his body completely on the bed so that they’re fully facing each other. “I mean, I care, I care that you’re sad, I don’t care that you like boys.”

“Okay,” Wonwoo says dumbly, his voice coming out all cracked. His shoulders are shaking, he’s only noticing now. Soonyoung places a calming hand on one. 

“I don’t care,” he repeats. “You’re my best friend. You can do whatever the fuck you want.” 

“Okay,” Wonwoo says again. It’s all he can get out. “I didn’t, uh. Tell anyone. Before right now. So it feels weird.”

“Ah,” Soonyoung nods. Something shimmers at the corner of his eye. “Wonwoo-ya,” he says, fond. “Thank you.” 

Wonwoo doesn’t know what he’s being thanked for. “I still like girls,” he says pointedly. It feels like buying back some favor. 

“Some people like both, yeah?”

There’s a label for that. Wonwoo doesn’t want it. Wonwoo doesn’t want any of it, which is why he told Junhui they had to stop, but it seems like he’s stuck with it anyway, except now he’s also never going to kiss Junhui again. The realization dawns on him slowly. 

Soonyoung’s mattress calls him like a siren, gravitational pull. He wants to slide down and curl up and stay there. His body is a sieve, incapable of retaining strength. Wonwoo hates confirming clichés. Do straight men cry when women leave them? Does everyone feel this empty? Do they all just lie about it?

“I promise this is temporary,” he tells Soonyoung. “I just need to get it out. Tomorrow I’ll be over it.”

“I still don’t understand why you had to end it,” Soonyoung frowns. “Clearly it’s making you feel like shit.”

“Trust me,” Wonwoo chuckles bitterly, “Keeping it going would make me feel worse. He doesn’t,” he elaborates as Soonyoung just frowns deeper, “Junhui doesn’t like me—like that. And I—I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Try me,” Soonyoung rolls his eyes. “You make no sense ninety percent of the time and I still somehow manage.”

Wonwoo glares. “Your sympathy really lasted ten minutes.”

“Yeah,” Soonyoung huffs, “I reached my limit. Come on, finish your thought.”

“Don’t—don’t laugh. Or, I don’t know, just. The gay thing. I’m not okay with it yet. So it made me feel, I don’t know, guilty, and just bad. So I had to end it, do you understand?”

Soonyoung looks very, very serious again. Wonwoo isn’t sure he likes it. 

“If sex makes you feel bad, Wonwoo, yeah. Of course you stop.” 

“The sex was fine,” Wonwoo rushes to correct him. 

“I’m sure it was, but if it made you feel bad after, it’s still the smart choice to… step back. Figure it out. Did you tell him that?” 

The concept of telling Junhui _ any _of that has Wonwoo legitimately nauseous. It must show on his face, because Soonyoung winces, doesn’t wait for his reply. 

“Jesus, it’s like talking to a child.”

“You really don’t get it,” Wonwoo shakes his head. 

“I don’t. You’re right.” The ice cream is liquid now, forgotten between them, colors swirling. “Hey,” Soonyoung says. 

Woonwoo just looks at him. They have not had a talk like that since high school, when they would spend hours remaking the world at night when they were supposed to be asleep, Soonyoung on an inflatable mattress on the floor of Wonwoo’s room. 

“I don’t care that you like dudes. For real. It changes nothing.”

“It does change some things,” Wonwoo can’t help but chortle, dry. 

“You know what I mean,” Soonyoung punches him in the shoulder. “I’m serious, stop dicking around.”

“I know,” Woonwoo says. He has to turn his face away. Like oil and water, sorrow and hope don’t mix: they cohabitate, layered, still.

*

“So,” Soonyoung asks, big smile, awful, “Did you ever have a crush on me then? At any point?”

Wonwoo tries to strangle him with the strings of his Sogang hoodie, but he takes the question for the acceptance it is, grateful.

*

Wonwoo crosses paths with Minghao on his way to _ Survey of Southeast Asian Literature. _It’s been two weeks since he exchanged a single word with Junhui, but he’s been busying himself with all the coursework he had been neglecting and the days have started blurring together. It’s a very efficient coping mechanism, except at some point Wonwoo is going to run out of homework. He prefers not to think about that just yet.

Instead of smiling or waving when they get to talking distance like he usually would, Minghao just squints at him. 

“You did something.”

Wonwoo blinks. “What?”

“Junhui’s miserable,” Minghao says. “But he won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Minghao rolls his eyes, “It doesn’t suit you. Last time you were exchanging saliva in my corridor, so clearly you have a direct effect on his mood.”

“Someone’ll hear,” Wonwoo hisses.

“Ah,” Minghao says. “Is that what this is all about?”

“We’re not friends, Minghao,” Wonwoo says coolly. He hears himself pronounce these words, really. It’s a little bit like observing a scene at the movie theater. Removed from himself, projected on a screen, from outside his own body. 

“We’re not,” Minghao confirms, although it takes him a second to swallow Wonwoo’s words. “But you decided to stick your dick in _ my _best friend, so now this,” he gestures vaguely over at Wonwoo, “Is also my business.”

“You make it sound like we were dating,” Wonwoo mutters. 

Minghao arches an eyebrow. “Weren’t you?”

“Shows what you know,” Wonwoo chortles. “No, we were very much not dating.” His stomach contracts painfully around the words. “I have to go to class, sorry.”

“He’s sad,” Minghao insists. “And he won’t talk to me.” 

Wonwoo tightens his grip on his messenger bag. “Listen,” he sighs, “I admire how committed of a friend you are. But trust me, I’m not—if Junhui is—whatever he is. It’s not about me. But he has my number if he needs to talk.”

He doesn’t know what possesses him to add that last part. It’s shooting himself in the foot, plain and simple. 

He thinks of Junhui bringing chicken broth over after the first snow of the year. The memory clings to his eyelids like a solitary tear. 

Minghao doesn’t look convinced, but he just shakes his head and steps to the side to let Wonwoo access the pathway to Dassan Hall. 

*

Finals creep up on everyone much sooner than expected. They barely have the time to appreciate the milder weather and it’s already time to haul oneself in the library and _ never emerge. _

Wonwoo has the vague impression he has not engaged in human interaction in weeks, which objectively makes no sense because he still goes to class daily. It does _ feel _like that, though, mainly because he hasn’t talked to anyone he actually likes in days. Soonyoung has a Philosophy paper to write that has effectively taken over his entire existence, and without him hanging out with the others loses all interest, mainly because Wonwoo is still slightly afraid Minghao is going to find a way to stab him and get away with it. Plus, really, he doesn’t think anyone has time for anything that isn’t books, except maybe Mingyu, who is also contractually obligated to have time for football. 

The positive aspect in all this is that while Wonwoo was 90% lying when he told Junhui he wanted to focus on his grades, all he has left to focus on _ is _his grades, and so he does. By the time the hellish chaos that is finals week begins, Wonwoo actually feels pretty confident in his ability to survive. He emerges on Saturday with that confidence severely wounded, but by then none of it matters anymore. 

What _ does _matter is the bottle of apple flavored soju in front of him and the blessed sight of his best friend finally free from the shackles of Aristotle and virtue ethics. 

“Fuck you, Year 2!” Soonyoung cheers drunkenly, clinking their shot glasses together. 

Wonwoo downs his and immediately goes to serve Soonyoung again, mainly so that Soonyoung will get the hint and return the favor. Soonyoung, however, started drinking an hour before Wonwoo made it to the bar, and as such his cognitive functions are even more impaired that usual, which is saying something. 

“Screw tradition,” Wonwoo mutters to himself, pouring himself another drink too, swallowing down that one too. 

“Seokmin texted,” Soonyoung says, reading off his phone. “They walked to Sinchon, the bar they’re at does all you can drink for 20 thousand. You in?” 

Wonwoo’s first reflex is _ fuck yeah, _but then something vital occurs to him. 

“Is—”

“Junhui isn’t with them,” Soonyoung replies before Wonwoo can even formulate his question. Wonwoo takes back whatever he was thinking earlier about his mental capacities. Soonyoung is the smartest person in the entire universe. 

“Yeah, then. Yeah, sure.” 

The bar the others picked is on the third floor of a sketchy looking building in Sinchon-dong. It’s nice inside, though, purple neon lighting and sweet pop playing at an acceptable volume. When they push the door open they’re met with whistles and cheers. 

“You’re here!” Mingyu gets up to hug them both, almost knocking everyone’s drinks off the table. 

They squeeze themselves into the booth. It’s a tight fit, but it’s a fit. Wonwoo surveys the group. Mingyu, Jeonghan, Seokmin, Joshua, _ Wonwoo’s roommate, _for some reason? But no Junhui in sight, and no Minghao either. He takes a deep breath and wills his body to unclench. 

“Ah, Wonwoo-ya,” Choi Seungcheol says, and this isn’t as humiliating as having to face Junhui, but it does rank up there. 

“Hi, hyung,” Wonwoo says, looking down. The alcohol already swimming in his veins helps, but just a little.

Seungcheol’s smile is warm. He’s nursing a giant glass of beer. “I have to meet you outside our room to pull more than two words out of you, eh?” 

“He’s just shy,” Jeonghan elbows Seungcheol in the ribs. “Stop nagging him.” 

“Please,” Seungcheol snorts, “You’re the king of nagging.”

“I like Wonwoo,” Jeonghan shakes his head. “Tell us about your exams, younglings,” he orders. 

“I had two energy drinks and a shot of espresso in a can before my Science of Language final and I don’t remember any of it,” Soonyoung announces cheerfully, “So I think it went well, all in all.” 

“I mainly had papers,” Wonwoo says. 

“You’re in Creative Writing, right?” Joshua asks kindly. 

It’s an honest mistake, but it always makes Wonwoo blush in embarrassment. _ There are no lesser fields, _he tells himself, except he can’t help but wonder if it’s just written on his face. When he was a kid, a toddler really, his kindergarten teacher called his parents after school once to tell them she was worried because Wonwoo spent too much time in his own head and refused to talk to people. 

He used to think he felt weird about people assuming he was studying _ writing _ because his actual major was much more serious than that, whatever _ that _ meant. He’s not so sure anymore. It awakens something in him, rekindles the flame of doubt. _ What do you really wanna do with your life, Jeon Wonwoo? _

“No,” he tells Joshua, “I’m in Comp Lit. Close guess,” he adds with a tiny smile. 

Another round of drinks arrives in the middle of Seokmin explaining why he thinks he failed his entire semester in such terrifying detail Wonwoo is starting to doubt himself too. The Gin & Tonic he ordered goes down smooth, welcome. He zones out for a second, eyes trailing along the cool little light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, Soonyoung a comfortable warm weight against his side. When he logs on to the conversation again, Mingyu is drawing complex shapes on a cocktail napkin. 

“He’s teaching Jeonghan about the offside rule,” Seungcheol tells him conspiratorially.

“Shut up,” Jeonghan hisses, “I hate football. Say that one more time, slowly.” 

Mingyu grabs a salt shaker. “Okay, here’s the goalie. Got it?”

“I’m not stupid,” Jeonghan says disdainfully. Seungcheol huffs and gets another elbow to the ribs for his troubles. 

“I’m going to smoke,” Wonwoo tells them, the itch sudden but strong. 

“Wait, I’ll come,” Seokmin waves his hand. He shoots an apologetic look to Soonyoung. “Hyung, you have to move for me to get up.” 

“Sure,” Soonyoung says, and then proceeds to fold himself into fetal position on the bench. 

“That’s, uh, one way to go about it,” Seokmin frowns. 

Outside, Wonwoo tilts his pack towards him like a peace offering. Seokmin takes a cigarette and accepts the fire too, gratefully. 

“Oh,” he squints after the first puff. “You smoke menthols.”

“Yeah, shit,” Wonwoo exhales a long line of smoke, “I forgot to warn you.” 

“It’s fine,” Seokmin reassures him. “I just haven’t had one in ages.” 

The nicotine settles on his synapses and Wonwoo welcomes the first wave of calm, clearing the liquor-induced haze a little. Like rubbing your palm over a foggy mirror—it doesn’t make the reflection _ clean, _ exactly, but certainly _ cleaner. _

“Minghao said you broke up with Jun,” Seokmin breaks the silence with a hammer. Wonwoo should have expected it. 

He turns his face away. “We weren’t dating.” 

Surprisingly, Seokmin does not argue. “Yeah, Jun said that too.” 

Wonwoo perks up. “He did?”

“That’s what I figured, because Junhui never really dates anyone,” Seokmin says. “But Minghao doesn’t see the world like that. And they talk more, I suppose. He knows Jun better, so I couldn’t be sure a hundred percent.” 

“Jun,” Wonwoo repeats dumbly. He’s never called Junhui that before. _ Jun-ah, _ once or twice, but never _ Jun. _It feels naked somehow, disrespectful. Minghao does, all the time, because Korean honorifics obviously don’t matter between them, and it makes sense that Seokmin would pick up on it too. It still leaves a weird taste on Wonwoo’s tongue. “No,” he says finally, “We weren’t dating, no matter what Minghao says.”

“But did you guys have a fight? Junhui asks if you’re gonna be there when we invite him places,” Seokmin furrows his brows, “And I can never quite figure out what answer he’s hoping for.” 

In the wind, paper burns too fast. Wonwoo takes out a second cigarette. Seokmin refuses politely but shows no sign of wanting to go back upstairs. 

“We just…” 

He doesn’t know how to end that sentence. _ We were fooling around and now we aren’t _ seems simple enough, but maybe it is _ too _simple, not truthful enough. 

“How did you know you were,” he switches gears instead, “You know?”

Seokmin laughs, but it isn’t unkind. “I know? Come on, Wonwoo. It’s one word. You can say it.” 

“Gay,” Wonwoo says. The sky does not split open and lightning does not strike them. “How did you know you were _ gay_.” 

“I always knew,” Seokmin shrugs. “When I was really little I wanted to hold hands with other boys, and stuff. In middle school I was friends with tons of girls and all the other guys were jealous, that was funny. Like, I was very aware back then already, so it was like this inside joke, with myself. Anyway, there was not really… a moment, you know? I just knew.”

“So when you met Minghao, you knew.”

“That I liked dudes? Sure. But that’s it, though. It didn’t give me magical premonitions that it was going to work, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I don’t know what I’m asking,” Wonwoo says. 

“Not everyone knows from childhood, Wonwoo. Minghao figured it out in high school. It’s different for everyone.”

He’s at the filter of his cigarette again. Nothing to busy his hands and mouth with, the only way forward. He crushes the butt under his sole. 

“You know how _ I _knew?” he asks Seokmin, bitterness on his tongue like snake venom. “I just—I didn’t. There was nothing, no signs, no warning, and then there was Junhui.” 

“Oh, babe,” Seokmin says. Wonwoo doesn’t understand why his tone is so gentle. Seokmin opens his arms but doesn’t move. Wonwoo’s vision is weirdly blurry. “Take the hug, Wonwoo,” Seokmin huffs fondly. 

It’s a good hug, even though Seokmin is all angles. He’s a warm person, a sunny person. It makes sense that Soonyoung likes him so much, much more sense than Soonyoung’s friendship with Wonwoo, which was born out of circumstance and primary school seating assignments. Wonwoo’s shoulders start shaking. 

“Oh my God,” Seokmin says, slightly panicked, “Please don’t full-on cry, I don’t know how to deal with that and I don’t even have tissues.” 

Wonwoo hiccups an ugly mix between a laugh and a sob. 

“You’re a good friend,” Wonwoo says shakily. God, this is terribly embarrassing. Sober Wonwoo is going to have many regrets, Wonwoo thinks absently, but that’s a problem for the future. 

Seokmin is petting his hair in reassuring motions, which should just add to the humiliation but is actually very soothing. “Thanks, I try. I have to, actually, Minghao is _ not _a people person.” 

“You speak like you’re an old married couple,” Wonwoo rolls his eyes, and ah, that’s better. Talking about other people, that’s _ great. _

Seokmin disentangles them slowly. “Aren’t we?” he arches a playful eyebrow. “We’ve been going steady since high school, I think that’s pretty much it, you know.” 

“I cannot imagine standing someone for that long,” Wonwoo wrinkles his nose. 

“Soonyoung,” Seokmin points out. 

“That’s not the same,” Wonwoo shakes his head. “Once in a while Soonyoung and I have a healthy disagreement and I punch him in the face. It keeps the friendship alive. If we were dating that would be disturbing.” 

Both of Seokmin’s eyebrows are now threatening to disappear into his hairline. “Oookay.”

“I’m drunk,” Wonwoo says. The world is tanking. 

“You are,” Seokmin nods. 

“Why isn’t Minghao here, then, if you’re married?” 

The question doesn’t exactly come out the way he wanted to ask it, but Seokmin doesn’t look offended. 

“I don’t think that’s what marriage entails,” he says patiently. “He’s with Jun. They’re also sort of married, when you think about it.” 

Wonwoo frowns. “And that doesn’t bother you?” _ He _finds the concept of Junhui being married to someone unsettling. 

“Not really,” Seokmin says, easy, and Wonwoo envies that peace of mind very much. “First of all,” he leans in conspiratorially, and Wonwoo mirrors him reflexively, “They are absolutely incompatible sex-wise, so,” he giggles, “You know.” 

“I know,” Wonwoo repeats the words just so that his brain can process them, because no, he very much does not know. 

“Do you want to go back up?” Seokmin asks. 

Not really, Wonwoo wants to say. He’s burned through his quota of socializing for the month, at this point. But it would be rude, and he doesn’t know if he’ll see any of the guys before leaving for break, so he mumbles something affirmative and follows Seokmin up the stairs and proceeds to drink enough to hopefully forget this conversation. 

*

He does not forget the conversation. 

In fact, it haunts him the next day through his hangover, and then the next while he packs up his dorm room, and the next day on the train too. 

_ When did you know? How did you know? How could you not know? _

It takes two hours and forty minutes to get to Changwon from Seoul via rail. Soonyoung spends half of that time snoring loudly opposite him. Wonwoo spends most of it thinking about how Junhui taught him a frankly impressive amount about gay sex and virtually nothing about _ being gay. _Not that it was his job or his responsibility, but the imbalance is still thoroughly felt.

It’s seeing his parents on the platform that finally wipes his mind clean. The sight of his mother in her elegant blue dress waiting for him with tender eyes pushes every thought out of Wonwoo’s brain, blessed silence. He leaves Soonyoung with the luggage and runs to her, arms wide and ready. 

He’s taller than her now, much stronger too, has been for a while. It’s easy to engulf her in his embrace, breathe in her flowery perfume. 

“Mama,” he sighs. Her fingers card through his hair in the most familiar motion. His father pats him on the shoulder.

“Hey, boy.”

He detaches himself from her finally, bows to his father. He’ll ask for a hug from him too, but later, behind closed doors. 

“Eh, traitor!” Soonyoung calls from behind, barely managing with the three huge suitcases. 

“Jeon Wonwoo,” his mother reprimands him, the severity of her gaze enough to convey her meaning. 

“Sorry,” he smiles, sheepish. He’s rarely felt so good about being home. 

They lug everything in the trunk of the family SUV. 

“Thank you for picking me up,” Soonyoung grins. 

“Oh, don’t mention it,” Wonwoo’s mother shakes her head. “Tell your parents I said hi, and thank your mother for the pie she brought us the other day, will you?” 

“Yes, auntie,” Soonyoung nods dutifully. It’s weird, every time, coming back to a life that did not stop for them, but kept going. 

They leave Soonyoung with his stuff and a promise to meet for dinner soon in front of his family’s house. Without his happy blabber the remaining of the ride is quiet, but not uncomfortable. Wonwoo hooks his chin over the headrest of the seat his mom is on, watches the road from her perspective in silence. When he was a kid she used to give him her hand to hold during every car journey, no matter how short or long, without even looking back. Just her open palm for him to touch, to anchor himself to reality. 

Bohyuk does not run to hug him the way he would previous years after months of separation, but Wonwoo would be lying if he said he didn’t expect it. His brother is at that age where everything matters and specifically for this reason he has to pretend that nothing does. 

Instead he’s waiting for Wonwoo at the bottom of the stairs, saggy jeans and graphic t-shirt with a barely concealed profanity in English on it to complete the tableau of his calculated nonchalance, peace sign thrown up in lieu of greeting. 

“Hey, loser,” Wonwoo grins.

“You’re the loser,” Bohyuk says, but he’s beaming. 

“I saw your PUBG scores, you’re definitely the loser,” Wonwoo chuckles. 

“Unpack your bags before you play video games!” their mother shouts from the living room, as if she has a damn radar. Super-hearing, perhaps. 

Wonwoo shares a knowing look with his little brother. “Help me carry my stuff up and then I’ll beat your ass at Mario.”

The next morning Wonwoo eats a full breakfast for the first time in months. His father apologizes for not being present, his mother passes on. Important meeting, foreign investors, something technical Wonwoo doesn’t bother remembering, etc. 

So it’s just him, her, and Bohyuk, and a multitude of bowls. 

“Tell us about your friends, sweetheart,” she asks, absently stirring a small spoon in her tea. 

“He doesn’t have any,” Bohyuk teases. Wonwoo glares, mouth too full to answer. 

“I have friends,” he finally says after he’s swallowed his bite of kongjaban. “Stop projecting.” He picks at his rice with his chopsticks but doesn’t eat any. “One of them is a football player,” he tells his mother, “You’d like him, he’s nice. Scored the winning goal of the season, too,” he adds for Bohyuk’s benefit. 

She puts more meat in Wonwoo’s bowl. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her he’s lost appetite in the morning, trained himself out of it by skipping breakfast altogether one too many times. 

“Bohyuk is thinking of going into Medicine,” she says proudly. 

Wonwoo was never a jealous sibling. When they brought Bohyuk home from the hospital, so tiny in his sky colored blanket, even though he was hogging all of their mother’s attention Wonwoo remembers feeling only fascination. Later that would bloom into affection, deep and solid, although of course occasionally shaken; but her cannot recall a single occasion of real, bitter envy growing up.

He’s overwhelmed by it now, wave crashing over tsunami-like, gigantic. 

“That’s great,” he hears himself saying. “What schools are you thinking of?”

“Yonsei,” Bohyuk says, cheeks a little red. “And Seoul National, of course, but Yonsei is my first choice.” 

_ This isn’t about you, _Wonwoo has to tell himself, except it’s hard not to think of the rejection letter with Yonsei University’s seal on it, or of the fact Wonwoo hadn’t even applied to SNU, not after blowing all his chances out the window by quitting Chemistry in junior high. 

“You’ll make it,” he smiles at his brother. Their mother nods in approval. “You’re a hard worker.”

“My smart, smart boys,” she sighs. “I missed having you both at the same table. This one lives here,” she tugs Bohyuk’s earlobe, eliciting an affronted squeak, “But I almost never see him either.” 

“High school is hard, mama,” Bohyuk laments. 

Wonwoo helps her with the dishes when they’re done, the youngest off to study. He’s taking a summer course online, she explains, college level. Intro to Anatomy, shows he’s really serious about Med School, Wonwoo supposes. 

“You’re quiet, my baby,” she remarks as she hands him a cup to dry. 

“I’m always quiet,” he shrugs. 

She shakes her head no. “Not with us.” 

He’s almost two heads taller than her now. It’s weird to think he used to be small enough to hide in her long wavy skirts, once upon a time. She’s still the most beautiful woman he knows, eyes sharp and dark just like his. There was a time where just looking at his reflection was an act of reassurance because he could see her there. 

“I’m just tired, mama,” he says. 

*

Soonyoung always celebrates his birthday a month late, has been doing so since they entered high school. It’s a tradition at this point, albeit one born out of need: the fifteenth of June always ends up being, one way or another, right in the middle of exams. Now that they’ve gone off to college, pushing back the festivities to July has the double advantage of allowing him to spend his postponed birthday with family and childhood friends, but it also means he never really gets to do that with his university friends. Win some, lose some. 

Soonyoung likes making a huge deal out of it. Wonwoo always gets him cake on the actual date anyway, but on the fifteenth of _ July _he declares himself king of the world yearly. It was endearing when they were kids, and it is still tragically endearing now that they’re in their twenties. It also means Soonyoung has been throwing increasingly impressive parties with every summer that comes. 

Which is how Wonwoo finds himself in a corner of Soonyoung’s living room, bottle of beer in hand, surveying a crowd of people that is _ definitely _too large to just contain their high school acquaintances. Soonyoung’s sister is here too, surrounded by a group of young women dressed way too sharply to be university students, so Wonwoo guesses she also brought friends along. The furniture has been pushed against the walls to create a makeshift dancefloor, and Soonyoung stuck sheets of purple tissue paper over the ceiling lamps, bathing the room in a bluish hue. No one is dancing yet, it’s too early for that, but they’re all vaguely bopping along to the rhythm of fruity pop coming from the speakers, which means it will only take one more round of drinks until someone gets the party started for real. 

Wonwoo doesn’t really dance. He will if he has to, usually figuratively held at gunpoint by his friends, and only after a _ sizeable _amount of alcohol has been ingested by everyone present. When Soonyoung comes to drag him to the center of the room, none of these conditions have been met. 

“It’s my birthday,” Soonyoung whines, “You’re supposed to do as I say.”

“It’s not even really your birthday,” Wonwoo huffs, but he lets himself be maneuvered anyway, pliant. 

“Kwon Soonyoung!” someone yells from one of the couches, “Show us your moves!”

Soonyoung slutdrops to the beat, shameless. Wonwoo is embarrassed enough for two. 

“That’s it for today,” he mutters, but Soonyoung pulls him back in, shoves a plastic cup in his hands. 

“Bottoms up.”

Two girls giggle on his right. Wonwoo rolls his eyes, but he downs the drink. 

“This is a house party, you don’t need me to wingman,” he whispers. Soonyoung grins, shimmies along to the music. It’s contagious: to his greatest horror, Wonwoo can feel his body moving to the rhythm too. 

One of the girls inserts herself between Wonwoo and Soonyoung. Wonwoo goes to move, his role here clearly fulfilled, but she turns her back to Soonyoung, and _ ah, _okay. That changes things, he supposes. 

She’s terribly pretty, hair dyed silver and stylishly cut shoulder length, the tiniest waist and legs for days in her stonewashed jeans shorts. 

“Hi,” she smiles, big and bright. She’s not as tall as Wonwoo, but she’s tall for a girl, doesn’t really have to look up at him. “I’m Kyungwon.”

“Wonwoo,” he introduces himself. She just smiles bigger. 

“I know,” she says, voice loud to go higher than the music, “You were a grade above me in high school.” 

He was popular with girls back then. It had carried him through the awkwardness of adolescence and the anxiety of choosing a life path, that nascent confidence that if _ anything, _he at least was somewhat good looking enough for folded confessions in his locker. 

“I was very busy with—school stuff,” he splutters. He’s out of practice. “Sorry that I—”

“Oh no,” she interrupts him, “We never talked. I didn’t expect you to know who I was.” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. He likes the way she’s done her makeup, sparkly eyeshadow matching her top. 

She puts a hand on his forearm. It’s not really a hold, more like a gentle guiding touch, so that they’re half dancing together but they could both escape if they really wanted to. She’s so nice to look at Wonwoo just does that, takes the sight of her in, the perfect lines of her face, the arch of her nose. He’s too sober to make a move but buzzed enough to take one step closer, the distance less and less respectable. She started it by touching him anyway, so he figures he’s welcome to at least try his luck. 

There is a ritual to these things. Hands speak their own language. She angles her body towards him and away from the world, the message clear. They don’t live in the same city anymore, only one possible outcome to this. Soonyoung’s parents aren’t supposed to come back until the weekend, so technically, Wonwoo could pull her upstairs to the guest room. He could wrap his arm around her waist, lean in to press their lips together. These are all things he could do. 

He’s lost the habit, maybe, but even that does not fully account for his reticence. He’s attracted to her, brain going foggy like a bathroom mirror, but there is a link missing between that simmering want and _ action, _like someone cut the power line. Two songs pass like that, sweet lyrics washing over him like salt water, until Kyungwon takes the matter into her own hands and takes the last step separating them, leaving him no other choice but to hold her by the hips or risking total ridicule by standing there like a branchless tree. 

“D’you think I’m pretty, oppa?” she asks sweetly, voice only half-serious. 

“You’re beautiful,” Wonwoo says, and he’s not lying. 

“Would you kiss me, then? Is that too forward?”

It’s not, he decides then and there. She liked him in high school, and she still likes him now, and she’s warm and delicate against him, so nice to hold. When their mouths meet she sighs, parts her lips slightly. She tastes like strawberry lip gloss, the slightest bit artificial. Someone whistles in the background, but Wonwoo doesn’t really care. This is who he’s always been to all these people, confident and smooth and never alone. It makes sense, here, and like this. 

They make out for a while, all of it very socially acceptable, her hand in his hair, his hand in her shirt. He doesn’t feel the burning need to take it further, but he could, he supposes. Clearly she’s not opposed to that, her fingers drumming against his chest, lingering. 

“We could go upstairs,” he whispers close to her ear. That’s how these things go. 

Her cheeks are pink. There is a glimmer in her eyes. “Who’s being forward now?” she teases. 

“Only if you want to,” Wonwoo hurries to add. 

She hooks her pointer in the collar of his shirt, tugs it down a little. He follows easily, another small step further. 

“I do want to,” she says. 

Soonyoung notices him slipping away from the few dancing people, but all he does is shoot a victory sign in his direction. He’s surrounded by five girls who seem absolutely captivated by whatever bullshit he’s been spewing, though, so Wonwoo isn’t exactly worried about him.

Upstairs, door closed, the noise drains from Wonwoo’s ears, muffled and low. In destabilizes him for a second, courage leaving his body with the sound. Suddenly he’s twenty-one again, in the right timeline, a tired university student with an aching heart and concerningly deteriorating social skills. 

Kyungwon flattens her palm on his chest, pushes gently. Wonwoo lets himself fall into the bed, the back of his knees hitting the edge of the mattress. She plants her knees on each side of his body, straddles his lap like that and bends down to kiss him again. This time it is filthier, purposeful. 

He helps her take off her grey shirt. The bra she’s wearing under was obviously carefully chosen, an intricate pattern of light blue lace and cotton. He can see the outline of her nipples, and something stirs deep in his belly. As if on cue, her hand slithers down his abs over his shirt and goes to cup him through his jeans. He lets out a shaky breath. 

His mind wanders. Her touch feels good, but he’s floating away. He watches himself from outside his body, hands following the elegant curve of her ribs as they kiss again. 

He hears Soonyoung’s voice in his head, reverberating from far, far away. _ If sex makes you feel bad, of course you stop. _

“Wait,” he pants against Kyungwon’s mouth, “Sorry, just—”

She stops kissing him, stills her hand. “Mmh?”

“Sorry,” he repeats, winces. “I’m just, I don’t really feel…”

Saying _ I can’t do this _ sounds terribly dramatic. He _ can _do it. He just doesn’t really—want to. 

“Oh,” she frowns, nose scrunching up. “Did I do something wrong?”

Guilt hits him like a truck. “Ah, no, no. I’m just,” he wonders what will soften the blow, considers telling her he’s drunk too much. He goes for as much of the truth as he can instead. “I had a bad break up. I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have strung you along.” 

Her expression closes on itself, but there is kindness in her gaze. “No, you shouldn’t have,” she agrees. She gets off him, puts her shirt back on. Her lipstick is ruined, but she rearranges her hair in the mirror and immediately looks much more put together. “Well,” she sucks in her cheek. “At least I got to kiss my high school crush.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. 

“Eh, it’s fine,” she shrugs. “Just—don’t do it again. No one wants to be a rebound.” 

She leaves him with that. He falls back onto the bed, exhaling a long, long sigh, completely sobered up. 

*

Soonyoung finds him there the next morning, _ come help me clean up _the first words out of his mouth. Wonwoo gives him the finger from where he’s laying horizontally. 

“You’re awfully cranky for someone who got laid last night,” Soonyoung remarks. 

“I have good news and bad news,” Wonwoo says.

Soonyoung raises his eyebrows. “Oh boy, here we go.”

“The good news is that I still like girls.”

“Okay,” Soonyoung says, clearly confused. “And the bad?”

“The bad news is that I also still like Junhui,” Wonwoo finishes before dramatically covering his face with a pillow.

“Why is that bad?”

Wonwoo uncovers his face to glare at him. “We’ve been over this.”

“Yeah, but I still disagree with you.”

“No bad advice before noon,” Wonwoo pleads.

“It’s one in the afternoon, Wonwoo,” Soonyoung says dryly. “Come help me clean up, I’m not kidding, my parents are going to kill me.” 

Their version of cleaning basically consists of Wonwoo holding a large black garbage bag open while Soonyoung shoots empty cans at it, shrieking happily every time he scores a goal. 

“So,” Soonyoung says when all the trash has been put away and all that remains is pushing back the furniture to its correct place, “You _ didn’t _get laid last night?”

Wonwoo hip-checks an armchair. “Not really.”

Soonyoung arches an eyebrow. “Not… really?”

“I didn’t,” Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “It felt wrong.” 

“But not because you didn’t like her?”

Wonwoo shakes his head. “I liked her just fine.”

Soonyoung smirks. “Couldn’t get it up?”

“I _ liked her just fine _was the polite phrasing, but since you’re an idiot, no I very much could get it up.”

Soonyoung just looks confused again. “Then why not?”

“Because I’m still hung up on Junhui,” Wonwoo hisses between gritted teeth. “Jesus, do you have a single functioning brain cell?”

To his surprise, Soonyoung grins from ear to ear. 

“There you go.”

“Oh,” Wonwoo frowns. “You knew that.”

His best friend huffs out a laugh, but it isn’t unkind. “Yep.”

“I can’t believe I was just emotionally manipulated by someone who still says he wants to be Shinee’s Taemin when he grows up.”

“Hey,” Soonyoung protests, hitting him lightly on the shoulder, “Put some respect on the name of the king of K-Pop.”

“I’m not going to get back together with Junhui,” Wonwoo tells him, because he needs it to be clear. “We weren’t together in the first place.”

“I’m not telling you too,” Soonyoung says, flopping back onto the couch now that the living room looks like a living room again. “I just think you need to, like, really acknowledge your emotions.”

Wonwoo grimaces. “I need to find whoever made you take that Psych 101 class last year and _ kill _them.” 

He gets a decorative pillow thrown at his head. “Shut up, I’d make a marvelous counselor.” 

“Camp counselor, maybe,” Wonwoo cackles. He gets pelted again for that one, so he throws the pillows back at Soonyoung, and they get caught in a feedback loop until Soonyoung’s older sister yells at them to shut up from upstairs because they’re laughing too hard.

*

July flows fast, river on the rocks, and August shows its sunny face so soon. Now that the rainy season is over, humidity just settles in the air, heavy and solid. It’s Wonwoo’s least favorite month, because of the weather, but also because right as he settles back into his routine at home it is time to leave again. August is a month of perpetual displacement. 

By the end of the second week he already has everything packed. It’s better this way: his room doesn’t really feel his like that, with his stuff neatly folded inside his suitcase, even his toiletries all tidied away and only taken out when he needs them. It gets him in the right mindset, and it means he won’t have any last minute cleaning to do either, can focus on his family instead. He takes Bohyuk out for coffee and gives him advice for his senior year, although his brother already seems to have it all figured out. He goes out with his father too, twice, once at the park and then after that at the small bar down the street where they share a bottle of soju. 

“You’re a man now, Wonwoo,” his father says as Wonwoo serves him the end of the bottle. “I’m proud of you, you know?” 

Something constricts within Wonwoo’s chest, wild lianas around his heart. 

His mother spends the last few days in the kitchen, like she did the previous year, making enough food for a small army and stuffing it into every tupperware she can find. Wonwoo is grateful for that, both for the love she pours into making his departure a smoother ride and for the food itself; the singular selling point of the cafeteria in his dormitory hall really only is that it exists. 

He finds himself sitting at the small kitchen island on one of the tall stools she bought when she redecorated while he was gone, the day before he has to leave, watching her make japchae. 

“Pass me the sesame oil, love,” she asks him absently, not raising her eyes from the skillet. He fumbles around a bit before handing her the small dark bottle. 

When she’s done she serves them two bowls, and puts whatever is left in a glass container for it to cool down. 

“It smells good, mama,” he accepts his portion gratefully, the ceramic hot against his palms. 

She sits opposite him with her food. “I’m not supposed to say it,” she sighs, “But I don’t like it when you leave.” 

There is no one else in the house. Outside the night is settling slowly over the city, no stars visible but the moon so bright it’s white. Behind him the clock on the wall is ticking, metronome. 

“I’ll visit more often,” he tells her, his insides tight. The glass noodles taste good, but they stick to the roof of his mouth like words unsaid. 

“I don’t mean to guilt you,” she shakes her head. “I just don’t like lying. I’m sad when you leave.” 

He wishes he could tell her, explain how for weeks on during the winter all he really wanted was the comfort of her hand in his hair. She thinks he likes it that way, he knows. She’s only half right—he enjoys his autonomy, and he enjoys the lack of expectations, but he misses them all the time, always. 

“Mama,” he says, “I have something to tell you.”

He doesn’t know what pushes the words out. They trickle from his mouth without his permission, as reflexively as exhaling. Maybe it’s the liminal space between night and day and leaving and staying. Actions don’t have consequences when there is a train to board the next morning that will take you far away. 

She stills, puts her chopsticks down. His tone must have been grave enough to convey meaning. 

When Wonwoo was very little, his grandfather sat him down and taught him about the mountain god, and the spirits that guard villages, and the songs one can sing to make the crops grow faster. Years later he told Wonwoo about the war, about the sky opening in two, raining red. Stories of death and hunger, and after that stories of despair turned into courage. Wonwoo knew he wanted to write then, although it took him years to formulate that want. He was hungry for narratives already, eternally curious about how they were shaped. 

_ Honesty is a virtue and a path, _ his grandfather had said once, when Wonwoo had asked him why he never shied away from the truth in his retellings, even when the truth was ugly, and even when it did not make him look good. _ Lies make you run in circles. _

_ Lies make you run in circles, _Wonwoo tells himself as he pushes his bowl away, clears the space between him and his mother. 

“I don’t know how to say this,” he tells her. “I’m worried you’ll look at me differently.”

The intensity of her stare is suddenly too much for him to bear directly. He looks down at the table, let's his eyes travel along the ridges in the wood.

“You’re my son,” she says. “I love you. That’s never going to change.” She hooks two fingers under Wonwoo’s chin to force him to look her in the eye. “Do you understand me? If you killed someone, I would help you hide the body.”

There is something very sharp in her voice. Wonwoo believes her. 

It does not make this easier. 

“I like boys, mom,” he tells her quietly. 

“That is much less complicated to deal with than you being a murderer,” she answers without missing a beat. 

Wonwoo snorts out an ugly laugh, his shoulders shaking. It’s tension, he realizes belatedly. His body is so tense he’s trembling. 

“You’re my son,” she repeats. 

He gets up on autopilot, circles the table to stand in front of her. She opens her arm. 

“I’m really sorry,” he hiccups against her shoulder. 

She strokes his hair soothingly, back and forth. “Why are you apologizing, baby?”

“I’m making things harder for you. I’m making things—”

“It’s your life, Wonwoo,” she gently cuts him off. “Not mine. It’s not about me.”

“But you’re going to worry,” he says, voice a little muffled by the fabric of her shirt, “And dad, God, I can’t tell dad, and everyone in this town expects me to get married, and—”

“Wonwoo.”

She pushes him off to look him in the eye again, careful but firm. “We will deal with your father later. Listen to me. Of course I’ll worry. I always worry about you. There isn’t a second that passes where I don’t worry about you. You cannot do anything about that.”

“I don’t want you to worry,” he repeats stubbornly. “Isn’t that my job, to grow up well so that you won’t?”

She huffs out a small, fond laugh. “We tell you these things so that you go off and do well in school. Maybe one day you will have a child, and you will understand: I go to sleep wondering if you are well, and I wake up with the same question.” 

“I’m sorry for adding to that, then.”

She cups his cheek, holds his gaze. The knot in his stomach doesn’t know if it wants to untwist or tie itself tighter. 

“Maybe if you have a child you’ll understand this too,” she says. “I love you enough to fill an ocean. I have room in me for all your mistakes. But this isn’t one, Wonwoo. There is nothing to forgive.”

He was crying before, maybe. His vision is blurry now like a window assailed by rain. Inside him a string snaps, finally, letting a very, very heavy weight go. 

*

On the platform the next day his mother insists on walking him to the train after he’s said goodbye to everyone already. He hauls his suitcases up and then turns to her, at loss of what to do. She rearranges his collar tenderly, brushes his hair away from his forehead. 

“Call me when you get to your dorm,” she says. He nods vigorously. “And stop torturing yourself with your thoughts.” 

“What about—”

“You can tell your father whenever you want,” she tells him, like she’s read his mind. “We’ll talk about that when you call me, so _ call _me.” 

He’s inexplicably giddy through the whole trip, cheek pressed to the glass window on his left, earphones in. He longs to see Seoul, the outline of the skyscrapers, even the clouds. 

Hip-hop playing softly in his ears, he makes his way back to campus from the station. It’s early enough that there is almost no one outside, and the room Wonwoo was assigned for the year is also blissfully empty when he unlocks the door. He picks a bed and pushes the one suitcase with heavier clothes under it before falling back onto the bare mattress. The ceiling stares back at him in silence, and all the exhaustion from the journey suddenly rushes through his bones. 

He must have fallen asleep like that, because when he wakes up the watch on his wrist indicates four in the afternoon, and Wonwoo is shivering from inactivity, and his stomach is growling. No one he knows is back on campus yet, and none of the dining halls are operating this early in the school year, so his best bet for food is the e-mart next to Gonzaga Hall. 

It would be a nice walk if the weather wasn’t so terribly oppressive. As it is, especially because the Sogang campus was built on a hill, the ten minutes to Gonzaga Plaza really are the trek from hell. When he finally enters the convenience store Wonwoo definitely feels like he deserves his late lunch. 

He grabs a carton of banana milk and a ham and cheese sandwich from the fridge and makes his way to the register, only to bump into someone exactly as he’s getting out of the fresh food aisle. 

“Ah, crap,” Wonwoo mutters, clutching his items to his chest, “Sorry.”

“Sorry,” a familiar voice says too. Wonwoo perks up immediately. Blond hair, deep brown eyes. 

“Oh,” he croaks dumbly. “Junhui. Hi.” 

“Sorry,” Junhui repeats, “I was looking at my phone. My fault.” 

“You’re back early,” Wonwoo says, the words running from him before he can do anything to stop them. 

“I didn’t leave,” Junhui says. 

“Oh,” Wonwoo frowns. Last time he and Junhui had a real conversation, he distinctly remembers him mentioning summer plans in his hometown in China. 

“Yeah, I got an internship downtown. It was a good opportunity,” Junhui says, but his smile is strained, “And I finished last week, so, it didn’t really make sense to go home.” 

_ I’m sorry, _ Wonwoo wants to say. _ I know you miss your family. _

“Cool,” he says instead, like a goddamn idiot. “I’m just, ah, I just got here.” 

Junhui looks at the food in his hands, then raises a severe eyebrow. “You’re still eating bullshit.” 

“I haven’t even unpacked,” Wonwoo protests. “I was hungry.” 

Junhui tilts his head to the side. He looks so much like a cat in that precise moment it really hurts Wonwoo to not be able to scratch him behind the ear. “You need to take better care of yourself,” he insists. 

“My mom packed me food,” Wonwoo says, only retroactively realizing that was probably insensitive. He slaps himself mentally. “I’ll be okay.”

“Good,” Junhui says. “I’ll… see you, I guess. At Mingyu’s next game, probably, right?”

“Right,” Wonwoo acquiesces, a little dazed. 

As he walks back to his dorm, sipping his banana milk, he cannot help but think of Junhui alone all summer, work his only companion. It settles uncomfortably in his gut, loneliness by proxy. 

He wonders if Junhui would have called him, or even just texted, if the situation had been different, if Wonwoo hadn’t called things off. No, it wouldn’t make any sense, he reasons with himself. What would he need Wonwoo for, hundreds of kilometers away?

*

September elapses slowly, easily. Classes pick up fast, but Wonwoo stays on top of his work, does his readings, shows up every day, goes to the library. The rest of his time is split between fending off Soonyoung’s increasingly obvious attempts to set him up with girls and strategically avoiding all group gatherings in enclosed spaces, not eager to put himself back in the position of being alone with Junhui with no exit route. 

They do see each other again during the first football game of the season, Junhui already sandwiched between Seokmin and Minghao when Soonyoung and Wonwoo make it to the stands. It’s a good night, even though Sogang loses, and afterwards they all make it to a bar downtown where the central attraction is definitely Mingyu trying to drown his disappointment in grapefruit flavored soju. He doesn’t talk to Junhui all evening, and he doesn’t even have to try: Junhui is always at least with one other person, always busy in conversation, never free. 

It happens enough times, after that, that Wonwoo slowly learns to relax again in Junhui’s presence as long as other people are involved. They find themselves in each other’s vicinity and silently agree to coexist without ever actually entering in contact, and it works, well enough for Wonwoo to convince himself that his plan is going as well as he could hope for, his feelings extinguishing. 

Which is why he’s caught by surprise when he finds himself face to face with Junhui in a Starbucks alone and his heart drops to the center of the earth. 

*

“You look good,” Junhui tells him. _ He _looks exhausted, too tired for the beginning of October. Wonwoo’s grip tightens on his cup of tea. 

“Thanks,” he says, the word leaving him wanting. He expects Junhui to just nod and leave. Instead he points to a booth in the back. 

“I’m there studying. You wanna join me?”

_ No, _ Wonwoo is going to say. _ Thanks, but I was just leaving. _But Junhui is so pale under the harsh store lighting, all Wonwoo really wants to do is take him away, get him back to his dorm. 

“Sure,” he says. “Yeah, sure, lead the way.”

They sit in silence for a while, Wonwoo sipping his black tea, Junhui turning the pages of his textbook. It takes a second for Wonwoo to raise his head from his cup and realize Junhui is watching him, not his homework, hand going through text he’s not reading. 

“Sorry,” he mutters when he realizes he’s been caught. “I’m really distracted.” 

“Should I leave, then?” Wonwoo asks.

Junhui shakes his head. “No, stay. I need accountability.”

“Not a break? You look beat, Junhui.”

“Thanks,” Junhui chortles. “No, I—I really need to finish this assignment.” 

“Tell me about it,” Wonwoo offers. “Might unblock your brain.” 

“It’s the marketing class I hate,” Junhui says, like Wonwoo is supposed to know what he’s referring to, like they talk to each other about this stuff. 

“Okay,” he nods anyway because clearly Junhui just needs to get going. “What’s the assignment about?”

“Just this stupid presentation,” Junhui groans. “I’m being a baby, it’s not even that hard, it’s just a lot of work and I didn’t really sleep last night.” 

Wonwoo’s brain _ flies _to the gutter. He blinks to chase the images away. 

“Wanna show me what you got so far?”

“Absolutely not,” Junhui chuckles. “It is very bad and also nearly non-existent.” He snaps his textbook shut. “You know what, I’m taking that break, actually. God, _ fuck _marketing.” 

“Fuck marketing,” Wonwoo repeats, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He forgot, with all that, how easy Junhui is to be with. 

“Tell me about your summer,” Junhui demands. “I’m living vicariously through all of you.” 

“Oh,” Wonwoo huffs, “It wasn’t very interesting. I saw my parents and my brother. He wants to become a doctor. And, ah, Soonyoung’s birthday, that happened.”

There is a spark in Junhui’s eye. “Nothing else? Come on, sell me dreams.”

Something else _ did _happen, Wonwoo thinks, but he’s quite certain that it’s not what Junhui wants to hear. It must show on his face anyway, the sudden shift, because Junhui drops the carefree act. 

“Wonwoo?”

_ One, two, three. _

“I came out to my mom,” Wonwoo says quietly. 

Junhui’s eyes widen. He raises a hand, reaches for Wonwoo, but then he seems to remember something and he freezes awkwardly before retracting his arm. Wonwoo aches for that aborted touch. 

“Are you okay?” Junhui asks. 

“I’m fine. She was… she was good about it. Much better than I’d hoped for.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Junhui says, voice very low. Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. 

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Junhui says a little louder. “It’s not like_—_you’re not_—_” 

He frowns at himself, clearly battling for the right word. 

“You have the choice,” he settles on finally. “It was stupid to waste it. Maybe you’ll meet a girl, and marry her, and then you put yourself at risk over nothing.”

Wonwoo feels a little dizzy. “It’s not nothing to me, Junhui.” 

“I know that!” Junhui says, looking distressed now. “I know that, you think I don’t know that? You think I don’t feel the pull, every time I see my mother? I want her to know. I need to_—_I need her to know.” He bites the inside of his cheek. His leg is restless. “But I haven’t told her. And I, _ I _don’t have the choice. It’s boys or loneliness. Or, lying, I guess.” He smiles bitterly. “I’m a really bad liar. I’m even worse at being alone.”

“It’s not a choice, Junhui,” Wonwoo says. “It’s not a choice, for me, the same way it is not a choice for you.”

Junhui shakes his head. His face is pink. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he rushes. 

“No, I know what you meant,” Wonwoo says. If he doesn’t take Junhui’s hand in his he thinks he might die. It feels that catastrophic. He takes a deep breath. Honesty is a virtue and it is also a path. “I was in love with you,” he says. “That wasn’t a choice.” 

Junhui opens his mouth like fish, swallows air and closes it. 

“It really scared me,” Wonwoo continues. He has to get it all out now, or he never will. They can both benefit from this, he realizes. He owes that to Junhui, somehow. “It meant it could happen again, that I had—the potential, in me. To want men like that. To love men.”

It’s Junhui who looks around, a glimmer of fear in his eyes, to check no one in their vicinity can hear them. He never used to do that, before. _ Fuck it, _Wonwoo tells himself. 

Junhui flinches lightly when Wonwoo’s fingers wrap around his, but he relaxes instantly, squeezes back. A knot unties itself at the center of Wonwoo’s ribcage.

“No one’s ever been in love with me before,” Junhui says in a tiny, tiny voice. 

“That you know of,” Wonwoo counters. 

“I don’t think,” Junhui starts, and now he sounds like he’s about to cry, “I don’t really think there’s anything, you know.”

“I don’t,” Wonwoo says sincerely. “Know.”

“Anything to love,” Junhui says, and then looks away. He tries taking his hand back too. Wonwoo doesn’t let go. 

He remembers, ages ago—a year ago, but twelve months can pass like a century—wondering what it would be like, to hold Junhui’s hand, to—

He tugs, and Junhui mellows, lets Wonwoo bring his hand closer. Wonwoo presses his lips to Junhui’s knuckles, lightspeed. Objectively, in their corner booth, they are hidden from view. Wonwoo’s heart beats so loud and fast it echoes inside his stomach. Junhui’s eyes are as wide as saucers. 

“There are simpler ways to get me to stroke your ego,” Wonwoo smiles fondly. 

“I’m serious,” Junhui says. He’s staring at their linked hands. 

“I know,” Wonwoo says. 

“You said _ I was, _past tense.” 

Wonwoo blinks. “Does it matter? Jun-ah, I’ll always love you in the one way that counts.”

Junhui nods gravely. “I know your friendship is hard-earned. I cherish it.”

He wants to press, Wonwoo can tell. It’s reassuring, knowing he can still read Junhui like that. It’s a skill just like riding a bike, never quite gone, always ready to resurface if needed. 

“I had to force myself to stop,” Wonwoo offers him the raw, honest truth. “I had to take care of myself, too.”

“How did it go?” Junhui asks, eyes hungry. 

“It was like quitting smoking,” Wonwoo says. “It made me restless and sad and irritable.”

“But did it work?” 

Wonwoo knows the taste that’s flooding his mouth way too well. It’s hope. Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope is the build-up to disappointment. That Junhui is starved for affection doesn’t change anything. Wonwoo gets it, understands the craving. But it’s not fair, not to him, and not to Junhui either. 

But he promised himself, in his parent’s house. _ A virtue and a path. _

“Not very well,” he admits. He still smokes, too.

It’s Junhui’s turn to grab his hand, and to hold it with meaning. He stares at Wonwoo for a short moment, silent, as if gathering the courage.

“I missed you,” he confesses when he finally speaks again. “I missed you, I missed you so much it was making me sick.” 

And it doesn’t really matter, who can see and what they think, with Junhui’s nose digging into Wonwoo’s collarbone, the warm weight of his body against Wonwoo’s, and the way he holds on to Wonwoo’s shirt like it’s a raft and they’re at sea.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter heavily features anxiety/fear over coming out to a parent, and even if everything turns out fine in the end, that fear remains very real and palpable. there is also an instance of a character almost engaging in sexual activity they are not particularly interested in; and more generally it is implied but never outwardly stated that wonwoo’s mental health is steadily declining. 
> 
> please tell me if there is anything else you think should be mentioned/tagged! these warnings make it all sound very gloomy, but in between all that there is hope and gentleness and joy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains multiple scenes where the characters consume alcohol in amounts that are coherent with korea’s drinking culture and could be considered unhealthy. alcoholism is neither stated nor implied, and i don’t believe anyone actually has a drinking problem here, but i didn’t tag for alcohol use because it didn’t feel representative so i wanted to make this clear here. additionally, two characters engage in sexual activity after having drank, but they are both considerably sobered up by then and consenting and the sex isn’t graphically depicted. this chapter _is_ however why this fic is rated E and not M. 
> 
> happy reading ❤️

_ i am out with lanterns, _

_ looking for myself _

— emily dickinson 

  
  
  
  
  


Minghao is glaring at Wonwoo. 

Wonwoo thinks it’s particularly unfair considering _ Junhui, _the person Minghao is supposedly angry on behalf of, doesn’t seem to believe Wonwoo deserves to be glared at, as demonstrated by the fact he smiled at him when Wonwoo arrived at the bar and has been generally nice if not distant all night. But Minghao evidently does not care about that, seeing as he’s been staring daggers at Wonwoo all night. 

“We should go to a club,” Jeonghan announces drunkenly. Seungcheol pats him on the arm.

“I think you should go to _ bed,_” he says, fond but clearly concerned. 

Jeonghan snorts. “At eleven on a Friday? What are we, old people?”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Seokmin chimes in from the other side of their table. Wonwoo chuckles under his breath. Seokmin is at _ least _as drunk as Jeonghan. His cheeks are flushed bright red and he’s been grinning maniacally for the past half hour. His boyfriend, on the other hand, has been nursing the same beer all evening, probably because he’s too busy being irrationally mad at Wonwoo.

It’s not that Wonwoo is upset about it! Although he kind of is, truth be told. He really doesn’t like not being liked, and he’s also sort of tipsy, which is making him extra sensitive. But mainly he’d like to understand what he’s done. 

“We should go to Itaewon,” Jeonghan insists. 

“Oh,” Seokmin says happily, “Homo Hill!”

“Wonwoo is here,” Minghao finally joins the conversation. He sounds bored. Junhui arches an eyebrow. 

“And?”

“Well, he doesn’t usually tag along when we go clubbing,” Minghao rolls his eyes. “We should ask him if he’s comfortable before making any decisions.”

It’s nice, objectively. Wonwoo doesn’t know why it feels a little condescending. He might be imagining things. 

“Why wouldn’t I be comfortable?” he asks.

Six pairs of eyes turn to look at him. Seokmin, who is already unable to hide his emotions sober, has sympathy written all over his face. 

“Honey,” Jeonghan says softly, “Have you ever been to a gay club?”

“No,” Wonwoo says automatically. “Wait, pause.” Something doesn’t quite make sense. “Wait,” he repeats, “You’re gay.”

He means _ Jeonghan, _ but _ everyone _ is still staring at him, and they all look like they’re trying _ very _hard not to laugh. 

“Honey,” Jeonghan says again, biting his lip. Wonwoo feels incredibly stupid. 

“This is going to sound really dumb,” he says, “But I had not realized, until this very second, that it wasn’t just—”

He gestures vaguely in Minghao, Seokmin, and Junhui’s direction. Jeonghan looks like he’s about to have a stroke. 

“You thought I was straight,” he says, his voice cracking on laughter he’s given up on suppressing. 

“It’s okay, hyung,” Mingyu smiles encouragingly, “It means we’re stealthier than we thought, that’s good.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jeonghan says, and now he’s actually _ crying _with laughter. “I’ve never passed in my life, Wonwoo is just an imbecile.”

“Hey,” Seungcheol admonishes him. Something else occurs to Wonwoo. His intoxicated brain does not know how to deal with the influx of information. 

“You two are dating,” he frowns. “Oh. Jeonghan is right, I really am an idiot.” 

“You shared a room with him for a _ year,_” Jeonghan wheezes, leaning heavily on the table. 

Wonwoo hides his face in his hands. “I don’t know,” he laments, muffled, “I just didn’t think about it.”

“For the record,” Jeonghan says, “I would never willingly hang out with straight people.”

“Soonyoung is straight,” Wonwoo points out, face still covered. 

“Yes,” Jeonghan agrees cheerfully, “That’s why he’s Seokmin’s friend.” 

“Does that mean Wonwoo has never been to Homo Hill?” Seokmin asks in a small pensive voice, with the kind of seriousness only ever mustered by very drunk people. “That’s so sad!” 

Which is how Wonwoo ends up at a gay club for the first time in his life, which is probably not the kind of first time his father had in mind when he was telling Wonwoo about Seoul being a city of opportunity and a place to try new things. 

It’s definitely _ new. _Wonwoo does not go clubbing much to begin with, so he doesn’t have a lot of fodder to compare this against, but he’s been to clubs a couple of times, mainly for student events at the beginning of freshman year when he was still trying to convince himself he had it in him to be social and make friends all over again, as if four years of high school hadn’t drained that out of him already. The club is hidden from the outside world, no signage to indicate what’s inside. If he wasn’t with people who already knew where they were going, Wonwoo would have never found it. He wonders fleetingly what people who don’t already have gay friends do. Do they just stumble through all this on their own? Do they just remain lonely? The question leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

It’s very loud and bright inside, the dance floor bathed in multicolored light, the music blasting from enormous speakers. The place is rumbling with it, vibrations traveling through the crowd, making it appear alive, like one large drunken glitter-covered beast. It’s both impressive and intimidating, and they only just got here.

“Hey,” Junhui slides to the spot right next to Wonwoo, slithering between him and Jeonghan, “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” he says in Wonwoo’s ear. 

“I don’t know how to make my way back alone,” Wonwoo deadpans. It’s really meant to be a joke, but Junhui’s face falls.

“I’ll get you home,” he says, serious. Wonwoo shakes his head.

“I don’t mind. I’m curious.” 

Junhui examines him for a second, as if he’d be able to tell if Wonwoo was lying if he just looked at him hard enough. “Okay,” he says after a beat. “Stick close to me.” 

_ What are you going to protect me from? _Wonwoo wants to ask. Maybe he could say it coyly enough that Junhui would blush. Maybe…

Junhui links their fingers together and drags him towards the bar. 

The bartender is a tall, _ very _attractive man with blue hair. He’s also shirtless save for a leather harness resting tight on his pectorals. Wonwoo’s brain blanks for a second. Junhui, apparently totally unaffected, orders two Cosmopolitans and slides one towards Wonwoo. 

“I figured we’d ease you into it,” he smiles. “The others are dancing, but I don’t think you’re ready for that just yet.” 

“I can dance,” Wonwoo pouts. 

“I’m sure you can,” Junhui laughs softly, “But you’re not used to how touchy this crowd gets.”

“Oh,” Wonwoo says. He takes a sip of his drink. It tastes like vodka that heard of cranberry juice in another life.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Junhui continues, leaning back against the counter. “I realize we never really—well—talked, about this stuff. Of course you freaked out. I forget, sometimes, that not everyone grew up knowing. What that must feel like.” 

“I asked Seokmin about that,” Wonwoo nods. He drinks again. The taste really is horrendous, but he’d like his anxiety to chill out. 

“I still can’t believe you didn’t realize Seungcheol was dating Jeonghan,” Junhui says. “He really almost spent his life in Seungcheol’s dorm room when you were sharing.”

“Okay, first of all,” Wonwoo starts defending himself, “Soonyoung also spends a surreal amount of time in my room and the mere thought of dating him is making me want to puke. Second of all, _ someone,_” he stares at Junhui pointedly, “Made sure I did not actually spend many nights in my dorm last year.” 

His brain catches up with his mouth a beat too late. Junhui’s eyes widen comically. 

And then he just grins, smile eating half his face, like Wonwoo just said something really funny. 

It’s… Wonwoo doesn’t know how he feels about that. He thinks he’s _ supposed _to be relieved that they can joke about it. It means they can be friends, that they have a real shot at it at least. But his gut twists, as if an invisible hand was trying to wrap a present with his insides. 

He hurries to change the subject. “Where did you even find…” his voice trails off. “You know.” 

Junhui snorts. “Queer friends? Well. I’ve known Minghao for a while. Same dojo, we did wushu together. And he and Seokmin and Mingyu went to the same high school.”

“And Jeonghan and Seungcheol?”

“Ah,” Junhui says, rubbing the back of his neck, “That’s a funny story. Met Jeonghan here, actually.”

Wonwoo furrows his brows, confused. “That makes sense, I guess?”

Junhui wags his head fondly, shoulders shaking slightly with laughter. “It means we fucked, Wonwoo.” 

“Oh.” He doesn’t know how he feels about that either. The visual he’s making up in his head is very distracting. “And Seungcheol?”

“Yeah,” Junhui grimaces, “I fucked them both.” He downs his glass. “Okay, here’s gay culture lesson number one: basically everyone in our friend group has slept together.” 

“Isn’t that,” Wonwoo hiccups, “A stereotype?” Junhui pats him on the shoulder. Wonwoo hiccups again. God, he hates vodka. “Wait, who _ else _here have you slept with?” he squints. 

Junhui shrugs. “Mingyu, a couple of times. Minghao, once, but we were a lot younger and realized very fast it wasn’t going to work.” 

“He’s been with Seokmin since high school,” Wonwoo croaks. 

“They broke up a couple of times at the beginning,” Junhui cackles. 

“This is making me dizzy,” Wonwoo says. He cannot stop conjuring mental images of Junhui in bed with other people—with their _ friends. _

“Sorry,” Junhui says wryly, “I’m a slut.”

“You’re not a slut,” Wonwoo frowns. “You can sleep with whoever you want, I just—”

“Jeez,” Junhui snickers, “Thanks, Wonwoo.”

“You know what I mean,” Wonwoo insists plaintively, tugging at his sleeve. 

Junhui’s expression softens. “I do.”

Wonwoo scans the crowd. He spots Jeonghan and Seungcheol and for the upteenth time that night he wonders how he could ever be so oblivious. Seungcheol has his hands under Jeonghan’s shirt, and they’re pressed incredibly close together, easy, practiced intimacy.

Wonwoo whips his head around. “I want to dance.”

Junhui hooks a finger in one of his belt loops and pulls him closer. “Slow down, cowboy. Next time, maybe.” 

Wonwoo’s limbs are so heavy. He leans his head against Junhui’s shoulder. He’s not supposed to do that, he thinks, but he cannot remember why, and his head feels so fuzzy. “You promise?”

Junhui’s laughter always sounds soothing. He’s never making fun of you, he just finds most things amusing and just _ has _to make a sound. “I promise, yeah.” 

Junhui isn’t there the next time they go out—something about a sore throat he’s afraid might turn into a full blown cold. Wonwoo asks if he might need anything and Minghao shuts him down, curt, says Junhui’s already taken care of. That sounds like excessive possessiveness to Wonwoo, but he’s already a bottle of soju deep and doesn’t want to argue. 

Jeonghan has decided to adopt him for the evening, which Wonwoo is grateful for. It means he spends the night dancing sandwiched between Jeonghan and Seungcheol, safely getting increasingly smashed as the hours go. Jeonghan is terribly tactile, but Wonwoo discovers he doesn’t mind it. His back to Seungcheol’s chest, he tilts his head and lets Jeonghan kiss his neck, molds himself against the heat of the body behind him until Seungcheol gently drags both of them away to the side, the expression on his face simultaneously affectionate and disapproving. 

“Jeonghan,” he says, severe, “No.” 

“You’re no fun,” Jeonghan complains, but he tucks himself obediently against Seungcheol’s side, chin resting on his shoulder.

“Wonwoo,” Seungcheol turns to him, “Don’t let him kiss you, he’s wasted.” 

Wonwoo feels himself blush bright red, cheeks on fire. “Oh,” he stammers, “I wasn’t—”

“I don’t mind,” Seungcheol interrupts him before he can make even more of a fool of himself, “I just think _ you _might, tomorrow.” 

They leave him at a booth with Mingyu, who’s not drinking because he has practice in the morning. It does little to help Wonwoo’s overactive imagination that is now replaying Junhui’s words from the other week and wondering if _ I fucked them both _had a hidden meaning. 

*

Junhui texts him at nine in the evening a few days later. Wonwoo is laying on his stomach on his bed, trying to make sense of his Translation homework when his phone buzzes one, two, three times. 

_ i cooked rice in gatorade, _ the first message says. Then, _ it’s blue. _ Then, _ do you want some??? _

Wonwoo snorts at his screen, sends back three question marks. He immediately receives a zoomed in picture of the inside of a portable rice cooker filled with… yep. That is, indeed, turquoise rice. 

_ That looks nasty, _he texts Junhui. 

_ it tastes like normal rice!! _ Junhui protests. _ sos i made 2 much pls come over _

Wonwoo looks down at his homework and sighs. He really should say no. He does not have time to trek across campus to indulge Junhui’s whims. 

“Hi,” Junhui greets him cheerfully fifteen minutes later when Wonwoo knocks on his door. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

“Shit,” Wonwoo whistles, stepping inside, “You got a single?”

Junhui closes the door behind him. “Yep. Minghao moved out officially and there was no one to pair me with, apparently.”

Wonwoo frowns. “What did he tell his parents?”

“Half the truth, I guess. He said he wanted to live off campus and that he knew someone looking for a roommate. They know Seokmin is a high school friend, and all that.”

The small rice cooker is displayed proudly on Junhui’s desk, alongside a miniature hot dog grill and a… cotton candy machine? Wonwoo is fairly certain that’s a cotton candy machine. 

“That’s quite the collection,” he says diplomatically. 

Junhui brandishes a tupperware filled with blue rice. “Tada!”

“That looks vaguely radioactive,” Wonwoo scrunches up his nose. 

“I wish I had somewhere to fry eggs,” Junhui contemplates mournfully. “But we’ll make do with hot sauce.”

“You’re absolutely insane,” Wonwoo says, but he accepts the plate Junhui offers him. “I don’t want to know what train of thought brought you here.”

“Gatorade is basically water,” Junhui explains himself anyway. “I wanted to see if it’d work. Also, that’s a new rice cooker and I figured I’d start it off with a bang.”

They eat on Junhui’s bed, face to face. The rice does indeed taste just fine, although it looks absolutely atrocious, especially mixed with the sauce. 

“This is the worst date I’ve ever been on,” Wonwoo jokes. 

He’s—trying. The whole _ being cool about it _thing. Since Junhui clearly wants them to be friends. Junhui is friends with all the people he’s had sex with, and Wonwoo likes him way too much not to adapt. 

“That’s exactly why I don’t date,” Junhui agrees emphatically. “I’d be an awful boyfriend. You really dodged a bullet, you know?”

Wonwoo doesn’t know. He thinks of Junhui making him soup last winter. He thinks of Junhui sneakily paying for the cab every time they rode back to Sogang together. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice the tiniest bit hollow. There’s a grain of rice at the corner of Junhui’s mouth. It’s allowed, he thinks, to reach out and wipe it with his thumb. He’s not breaking any rules. He’s not breaking any rules when he brings his finger to his mouth either, even if he’s impossibly conscious of Junhui’s gaze on him. This is still something friends do. “Minghao is mad at me,” he says, mostly to break the tension. 

Junhui sighs tiredly. “I told him he was being stupid. He’s such a Scorpio sometimes.” 

Wonwoo scoffs. “What does that even mean?”

“Undying loyalty,” Junhui enumerates on his fingers. “Will hold a grudge forever. He stabbed a boy with a pen for me once.”

“Please don’t let Minghao assassinate me.”

Junhui laughs. It’s full-body laughter, shakes his frame, has him throw his head back. He’s the most beautiful boy Wonwoo has ever seen. 

“I’ll talk to him,” he promises. “I didn’t say anything bad about you, I swear.”

Wonwoo shouldn’t be fishing. This crosses a line, he thinks. “Why _ is he _mad, though?”

Junhui looks the slightest bit embarrassed. “Because I was sad when we stopped sleeping together and he thought you broke my heart.”

_ You’re the one who broke my heart, _Wonwoo thinks. That’s not exactly true, though, and it surely isn’t fair to Junhui. Wonwoo remains the one who broke things off—Junhui doesn’t owe him reciprocation. 

“I didn’t break your heart,” he says. “Right?”

“Of course not,” Junhui snorts. “Or, I don’t know. Not like that.” 

“What do you mean?”

Junhui pushes the two paper plates away. There is nothing but space between them, like that. 

“You were my friend, Wonwoo, you do know that, right? I really did miss you. You just—you stopped talking to me, just like that.”

“I was trying—”

Junhui raises a hand to cut him off. “I know that. I know that now.”

“I’m sorry,” Wonwoo says. He wishes he still had food left just so he’d have something to do other than stare down at his hands. 

“It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” Junhui says. “Like, sometimes life sucks, yeah? But it’s not anyone’s fault. It doesn’t always have to be someone’s fault.” He pushes himself up, puts everything they used in the trash except for the metallic chopsticks that he carefully wraps in a napkin. “I have to wash those downstairs,” he explains. “I keep forgetting to buy dish soap.”

It’s nearing eleven. Wonwoo won’t be able to do any of the work he was planning on completing tonight. 

“I’m glad you texted me,” he says.

“I’m glad you came over,” Junhui says, earnest. “Wonwoo, I—,” he bites his bottom lip, mulls his words over. “I’m really happy we’re friends again.”

“Me too,” Wonwoo says, and that, at least, doesn’t taste like a lie.

*

“How are your classes going?”

Wonwoo sticks his phone between his cheek and his shoulder, frees his hands to rummage his bag for his Tmoney card. 

“Good, mama,” he says. “Everything is good, don’t worry.” His mother huffs into the receiver. He can hear the sound of the TV in the background, the evening news is on. “Is dad around?”

“He fell asleep on the sofa,” she tells him conspiratorially. “I’ll wake him when dinner is ready. Your brother is still at cram school.”

“What are you making?” he asks. He likes to know these things. It makes him feel like he’s there with them, if just for a few minutes. 

“Nothing special, don’t be jealous. Just some stew.”

“I miss your cooking,” he says, honest. “I went for barbecue with some friends a few days ago, though, don’t worry about me getting enough protein.”

“That’s good, baby.” She’s in the kitchen now, from the sound of it—utensils clinking, the sound of water hitting the sink. “Are you seeing anyone?”

He chokes on his own spit. “What?”

“I’m just asking, Wonwoo,” she chuckles. “Shouldn’t a mother know these things?”

He clears his throat, looks around him. The street is mostly empty. The bus he wants to take isn’t scheduled for another seven minutes.

“No, mama, I’m not seeing anyone.” Then, softer, lower: “Have you talked to dad? About—about my—”

“You should tell him yourself, love,” she says kindly. “I will if you really want me to. But you won’t feel good about it, if someone else does it for you.”

She’s right. He knows she’s right. 

“I’m just scared,” he admits. “And I thought, you know. He’d have time to cool off, between now and the holidays.” 

“Your father isn’t going to be angry at you, Wonwoo.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” she says, surprisingly firm. “I married him. I lived with him for almost three decades. He’s not going to be angry. He loves you.”

Wonwoo’s throat feels tight. “He’ll be disappointed, then.”

“For someone so smart, you are very dumb sometimes, my child.”

“Thanks, mom,” he laughs dryly. “Ah, my bus is here.”

“Think about it,” she tells him as he climbs in and swipes his card. He greets the driver wordlessly, with an apologetic head movement. “Take care of yourself, Wonwoo. Call me more often.”

“Sorry,” he winces. “I will, I’m sorry.” 

“Think about it,” she says again. “I love you.”

He sits in one of the single seats, presses his face to the window. The mere idea of going through the whole ordeal of confessing again is making him nauseous. He thought he’d be fine once he’d done it once, but it apparently does not work like that.

Outside, droplets start drizzling, quickly turning into an actual downpour. Wonwoo sighs. He forgot his umbrella in Seungcheol’s car the other day. He can buy a new one at Daiso for maybe three thousand won, but just running there from the bus stop is going to get him drenched. He keeps doing that, somehow. Junhui would have a field day. 

He turns his mother’s question in his head. _ Are you seeing anyone? _No, clearly he isn’t. But he knows what she’s really asking—are you alone? Are you surrounded, are you cared for? Are you happy? 

He doesn’t think she would understand, not really, if he tried explaining what it feels like to have these friends. She’d try to, he’s confident about that now. She tries so very hard to adapt, to learn. He can tell she’s been reading up, which he finds simultaneously heartwarming and mortifying. 

But he doesn’t think he has the words for this. It’s a particular emotion—being found when you didn’t quite know you were lost. A homecoming, maybe. A happy return. 

*

They’re in Itaewon again a week later when Minghao comes to speak to Wonwoo spontaneously for the first time in what has to be months. 

“Junhui is making me apologize,” he tells Wonwoo in a morose tone that’s almost comical. 

“I can see that,” Wonwoo laughs. 

They’re outside the club, Wonwoo smoking a cigarette, Minghao staring at his empty hands.

“I guess the whole thing wasn’t really your fault,” Minghao says. The admission is clearly taking a gargantuan effort. 

“I’m glad he has someone to look after him,” Wonwoo says, sincere. He doesn’t know how to accept an apology that he still wasn’t technically offered.

“If you hurt him again, I will cut off your balls,” Minghao says. He sounds very serious. 

“Okay,” Wonwoo nods. “I don’t think I’m in the position to, but okay.” 

Minghao’s gaze is heavy. Wonwoo takes one last drag before crushing the butt of his cigarette under his heel. 

“He never says when something is wrong. He just—closes off, do you understand? He cares about you. So, yes, you have the power to hurt him.”

“I won’t,” Wonwoo promises again. “I mean, I’ll try my best. I care about him too, I—”

_ Care _is not the right word, but talking to Minghao still feels like walking through enemy territory. Maybe he already knows? Somehow, it doesn’t feel like Junhui would tell him, but then again, Wonwoo isn’t sure of anything. 

“Okay,” Minghao says, somehow _ still _sounding kind of thunderous, but mostly very awkward now. 

“I guess I can cross _ get the shovel talk _off my bucket list,” Wonwoo tries to joke. 

That, for some reason, is what gets Minghao to crack up. 

“Shut up, that wasn’t the fucking shovel talk.”

Back inside the nightclub, Minghao immediately disappears to find Seokmin, but Wonwoo finally feels like the air is as clear as it can be. 

He crosses the crowd to get to the bar—he absolutely isn’t drunk enough to attempt to find his friends on the dance floor. The blue haired barman isn’t on shift; instead it’s an intimidating woman with half a dozen piercings on her face and tattoos all over her arms, one half of her head shaved. Wonwoo orders a fruity cocktail he knows packs a punch and only stutters once.

He almost jumps out of his skin when an arm slithers around his waist, only to turn around to find Jeonghan grinning mischievously. 

“You disappeared,” the elder pouts. Wonwoo shakes his head, laughing. 

“You scared me! I was just out smoking. And then I needed more alcohol, clearly.”

“Junhui did shots while you were gone,” Jeonghan tells him conversationally. “He’s out of control.”

Wonwoo’s brows knit together in concern. “Does he, uh, need anything?”

“Oh, no, he’s fine,” Jeonghan waves his hand, “He’s just being particularly himself tonight. He befriended a couple of drag queens and now he’s dancing shirtless with glitter in his hair.”

Wonwoo blinks, then proceeds to down his drink. 

“Oh,” Jeonghan makes a face, “Babe, are you serious?”

“No comment,” Wonwoo mutters, glaring.

Jeonghan is looking at him _ very _judgmentally. “I’ve sucked his dick, I understand why you’re so heartbroken about it.” He amazingly manages to sound both magnanimous and disdainful. “But honey, you need to either make a move or move on.” 

“I made a move!” Wonwoo despairs. He needs a second drink. “I _ literally _ told him I was in love with him.”

“You slept with him for almost a year and you still don’t speak Wen Junhui,” Jeonghan _ tsk_s. “Get on that dance floor, lover boy. Find a cute twink to grind on.”

“How is that supposed to help?”

“Trust me,” Jeonghan snickers, “It’ll help.”

He half listens to Jeonghan—he does make his way to where everyone else is dancing under the flashing projectors, but he also keeps to himself, lets the music vibrate through his bones and moves along, not really seeking a partner. 

One thing he’s learned over the past few weeks coming here is that men find him attractive. He’s learned how to dress the part, too; the skinniest jeans he owns, tight shirts, even better if they’re sleeveless. He enjoys the attention as long as it doesn’t go too far, which is why he mostly sticks close to his friends if he’s dancing. That way he can safely flirt but retrench back to familiar ground if it gets too much. Seungcheol or Mingyu usually pull him in when that’s the case, just because they’re physically imposing in a way that makes strangers immediately back off. Jeonghan, too, can be quite convincing. Wonwoo turned to him for help once and Jeonghan kissed him like he owned him, holding him by the jaw. It left him breathless and a little dizzy, but it seemed to get the job done—no one tried to approach Wonwoo all evening after that. 

He’s isolated tonight but he finds he doesn’t really care. He’s gotten used to the club—to the smell of it, the sounds, the bright visuals and the illicit taste of it, how removed it seems to be from the rest of his life, how perfectly it fits into it too. There’s something about being wanted, being looked at. He knows most people here are searching for someone to spend the night with, and he thinks at some point he might try that too, but for now he’s content with the knowledge that he _ could. _That’s enough. 

Jeonghan was right about one thing: Junhui spots him quick enough. The crowd parts for him, and Wonwoo understands why. Junhui is beautiful all the time, but right at this moment he is ethereal; blond hair slicked back with gel, bare chest glistening with sweat and glitter, jeans hanging low on his hips. He smiles when he reaches Wonwoo, pulls him in by the fabric of his tee-shirt. 

“You’re here,” he says brightly, pupils blown wide. He’s extremely drunk, Wonwoo can tell, but still at the stage where he’s loud and happy rather than sleepy or depressed. He doesn’t let go of Wonwoo’s shirt. 

They’re not exactly dancing together. Junhui is swaying along to the song playing, and Wonwoo is mostly watching him. 

He thinks of the way Seokmin and Minghao dance, bodies so close together they blur into one figure, Minghao’s face buried in the crook of Seokmin’s neck. He thinks of Seungcheol and Jeonghan, moving slowly chest to back, their routine a performance, bordering on inappropriate. He wonders what would have happened if Junhui had taken him to the club when they were still sleeping together. 

As it is, he’s afraid of his own hands. There is so much exposed skin and all he wants to do is _ touch. _

“Wonwoo,” Junhui yells above the blaring speakers, “Close your eyes. Let go.”

He takes Wonwoo’s hands and puts them on his waist himself. His skin is so hot. Wonwoo closes his eyes. 

“Move with me,” Junhui instructs. “That’s it.”

It doesn’t mean anything. Wonwoo knows it doesn’t mean anything. This is the intimacy they all share with each other—this is what he didn’t know how to tell his mother about on the phone. How close he feels to all these people, simply because they share this one thing. How tender friendship can be when it is forged in this type of resilience. 

So it means _ something, _he supposes, just not what he wants it to mean when it comes to Junhui. 

*

The rest of the semester passes in a blink. Wonwoo settles into a routine—work hard during the week, party hard on Friday night, sleep it off on Saturday, rinse and repeat. There are variations sometimes, mostly for Mingyu’s games. They always all attend, sit as close to the field as they can and wave ridiculous signs. Mingyu runs to their side every time he scores and blows kisses to the sky. 

Wonwoo wakes up one day and it’s exam week. It doesn’t exactly sneak up on him, and he feels much more prepared than he did the previous year, but it still comes traitorously fast. For ten days he transforms into a caveman, only emerges out of his room to actually take his exams, spends the rest of his time frantically finishing papers or sleeping like a stone. 

He doesn’t even get to celebrate the end of the semester with his friends; he and Soonyoung booked the cheapest train tickets back home they could find, at seven in the morning the day after their last exam. 

Junhui texts him while the train slowly glides out of Seoul, _ have a nice winter break <3. _Wonwoo smiles down at his screen. Soonyoung pointedly says nothing. 

Winter break is uneventful. It always snows for a few days in Changwon, but not enough for it to stick to the ground—it melts in just a couple of hours, leaves behind sticky black watery mud. Wonwoo takes Bohyuk for a drive through the countryside on what’s supposed to be the coldest day of the season, bundled up in their heavy puffer coats, and they have a snowball fight in a field just like when they were kids. 

He doesn’t come out to his father. He wakes up every day telling himself he’s going to do it and then doesn’t, freezes, talks himself out of it. Junhui’s words go round and round in his head—_ you could find a girl to marry and then you’d have risked it all for nothing. _ He still disagrees. He doesn’t like dishonesty. It weighs on him, every day, his very own cross to bear. So he spends his vacation torn like that, between the urgent need to come clean and _ breathe _and the paralyzing fear that things will never be the same again. 

“Things will not be the same,” his mother confirms when he confesses his worries. “Things rarely _ stay _the same, Wonwoo, no matter how much we try to keep them that way. It is a part of life.”

She’s right—she almost always is. He still cannot make himself do it. She smiles sadly at him on his last day of break, caresses his face and tells him it’s alright if he’s not ready. He wants to curl up on her lap and cry. He hauls his suitcase into the trunk of the car instead and hugs her goodbye. 

*

Seasons seem to change faster with every year that passes. Winter is supposed to stretch into March, but in mid February it’s already raining more than it is snowing, winds calming, sun peeking on the best days. Wonwoo goes out less, works more, painstakingly earns back his spot on the leaderboard of his favorite online game, and enters the doomed phase of undergraduate studies where everyone seems to be wanting to talk to him about grad school. He still has to finish this year and a full year after that, and yet everyone from his professors to his academic advisor to his _ brother _ is asking him questions about The Future. He tells Bohyuk he’s thinking about grad school, because he is, but also because he knows the information will inevitably makes its way back to his parents’ ears. He bullshits his way through most of the other interrogations, claiming interest in fields he absolutely does not plan to study in just to satisfy academic egos, and hopes that will be enough to buy him some time. The nice lady at the Student Affairs office might be the only one he actually tells the truth to, which is a simple _ I don’t know, I’m not sure yet, I’m trying to make it through Junior year first. _

“You still have some time to figure things out,” she reassures him, and he nods silently but what he really wants to do is scream _ Why is everyone torturing me about this, then? _

“God, tell me about it,” Jeonghan sympathizes when Wonwoo complains about that at Seokmin’s birthday party a few days after his meeting at the counselor’s office. Jeonghan is graduating this year, and so is Seungcheol. They both have secured spots in Master’s programs, but Wonwoo remembers distinctly multiple post-grad related emotional breakdowns on Seungcheol’s part from when they were still sharing a living space. 

“I’m getting a useless degree,” Wonwoo laments. “I’m going to end up in the street and have to sell my body for a can of beans.”

“Nice Brooklyn Nine Nine reference,” Jeonghan snorts. “Don’t be stupid, we’re all going to a small Liberal Arts college, none of us are getting _ useful _degrees.” 

“Junhui is like, a discount business major,” Wonwoo argues. 

“Yeah, and Minghao studies _ photography,_” Jeonghan says dryly. “My point is, it’s too late to cry about it now. Commit to the Humanities lifestyle, Jeon Wonwoo! Or, like, I don’t know, go to Law School or whatever.” 

“I would be a really terrible lawyer,” Wonwoo muses. 

Jeonghan refills both their red Solo cups with punch. Mingyu was in charge of the drinks for tonight, so Wonwoo is vaguely scared of whatever’s in that bowl. 

“What do you _ want _to do, Wonwoo?”

“Write books,” Wonwoo says immediately. “Realistic fiction, I think.”

“You’re lucky you have a dream,” Jeonghan tells him. “I just picked History because I’m good at it. I’m not complaining, I think I’ll enjoy teaching. But I’m just following that path, you know? It’s not really an active choice.”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo shrugs, “I guess.” The punch truly is mostly alcohol. Mingyu seems to think everyone around him shares his insane metabolism. “But I’m not gonna become a novelist. That’s like, wanting to be a pop star. It’s a dream, you’re right.”

“Is that why you’re not in Creative Writing?” Jeonghan asks kindly. 

Wonwoo’s practiced answer is _ No, of course not. I chose Comparative Literature because I believe reading makes you a better writer, and I wanted to learn as much as I could while I still had the opportunity. _

“Yeah,” he says. “You gotta compromise, right? I could do Journalism with an undergrad in Comp Lit. It’s still writing, I suppose.” 

“But not the kind you want.”

Wonwoo lets his eyes trail over the living room. Seokmin is wearing a lopsided paper crown, making faces at the camera while Minghao fruitlessly tries to make him stand still so he can take his picture. Junhui is watching them with a fond expression, knees pressed to his chest on the couch. 

“You often don’t get what you want in life,” Wonwoo says. “Wow, okay, that’s a really depressing conversation for a party. Give me a different subject, quick.” 

Jeonghan laughs. “How much longer until Seokmin tries sticking his hand down Minghao’s pants in public, you think?”

“Gross,” Wonwoo scrunches up his nose. “He’s not you.” 

“You _ clearly _were not there for his nineteenth birthday,” Jeonghan cackles. 

They order pizzas when the clock hits ten, Minghao declaring that no one is allowed to drink for the next hour and then getting promptly ignored by everyone. Seokmin shrieks excitedly when they switch off all the lights to bring out the cake, and he blows his candle before they can even finish singing him _ Happy Birthday, _to his boyfriend’s great dismay. 

“A child,” Minghao mutters, rubbing his temples, “You are like a child. Or, like, a hyperactive puppy.”

“That’s Mingyu, actually,” Seokmin says cheerfully. 

Junhui slides into the spot next to Wonwoo on the floor and puts a plate in his hands. “Have some cake.”

“I’m watching my figure,” Wonwoo deadpans. He washes down the rich chocolate flavor with more punch. “Jesus,” he grimaces, “What did Mingyu put in this, Everclear?” 

“A surreal amount of Peach Schnapps, from what I could see.”

They sit together in silence like that, both slowly eating their cake. Minghao lowered the music earlier because it’s getting late enough that the neighbors would complain, so it’s more of an ambient background noise now, waves lapping on the shore. Mingyu and Jeonghan have taken over the kitchen, and Wonwoo can hear them fighting over Jeonghan’s alleged lack of skills. He rests his head against the wall behind him, looks around. 

He still doesn’t think he has his life together, not in the slightest, but he feels peaceful here. Content. 

Then a crashing sound comes from the bathroom, followed immediately by Soonyoung screeching _ Sorry, sorry, spider!, _and Junhui bursts into laughter, has to hold onto Wonwoo’s arm to keep himself upright, face pressed to Wonwoo’s bicep. His breath is hot even through the layer of fabric, coming out in short puffs. He doesn’t move even when his laughter dies down, stays leaning against Wonwoo, cheek resting on his shoulder. 

It’s been long enough, since Wonwoo last saw him naked, since the last time he held him, that it should not be muscle memory anymore, and yet—and yet Wonwoo slides an arm around his waist, brings him closer, and it still does not feel close enough. He wants to turn his face and find Junhui’s lips with his, wants it so badly his abdomen is hurting. It would be so easy. He’s also practically sure Junhui wouldn’t stop him. 

It’s a very bad idea, and Wonwoo is drunk, but he’s not drunk enough to lose all sense of judgement. 

“I’m tired,” Junhui mumbles. 

“Me too, kinda.”

“Walk me home?”

He says it with such assurance, even if his voice is sweet. Wonwoo shouldn’t cave that easily and confirm what Junhui already thinks, he has more self-respect than that. 

He pulls them both to their feet. “Yeah, come on. Let’s go hug the birthday boy goodnight.”

“And Soonyoung?” Junhui asks. 

Wonwoo looks to where his best friend is clearly passed out on the couch. “I’m not carrying his sorry ass home, he can sleep here.” 

The cold air in the street hits them like a slap in the face. Junhui is always clingy when he drinks, so it’s not a surprise that he hangs from Wonwoo’s arm as they walk. 

“I don’t want to take the bus,” he whines. 

“There are no buses running at this hour anyway,” Wonwoo chuckles. 

Seoul is never really silent, and it is always illuminated. They make their way from Mapo-gu down towards their campus, almost carried by the breeze. Junhui is a pleasant weight against Wonwoo’s side, a happy spring to his step. 

“A girl in one of my classes asked me if you were single,” he tells Wonwoo out of nowhere. They’ve been wordless for a little while, Junhui humming, Wonwoo trying to remember where they have to turn so as to not get lost. 

“Really?” he arches an eyebrow.

“Don’t be so surprised,” Junhui scoffs, “You’re very likeable.”

“I’ve had very limited success recently,” Wonwoo shrugs. He doesn’t really care, and he also thinks it’s because he’s been broadcasting very negative vibes, but it is the truth. “What did you tell her?”

“That I didn’t know,” Junhui says. “Just in case you were like, categorically uninterested. But she’s cute.”

“I’m… pretty uninterested, yeah,” Wonwoo huffs. “But I appreciate the ego boost.”

“There’s plenty to like about you, Wonwoo,” Junhui rolls his eyes. 

“Your classmate doesn’t even know me, though.” 

They’ve made it to the main entrance. This is where their roads should fork, but Wonwoo did promise Junhui to walk him home. He supposes that extends all the way down to Gonzaga Hall.

“I know you,” Junhui says, serious. “And I could make a list.”

“Okay,” Wonwoo blushes. “I believe you, Jesus.”

Junhui looks at him, and then he looks at the vast expanse of cobblestone, at the naked trees sleeping while they wait for springtime. He’s noticing where they are, that their feet brought them back to Sogang already. 

“Wonwoo,” he says. “I don’t want to be alone just yet.”

He’s so beautiful under the streetlights, shadows dancing on his face. There is a vulnerability to his gaze, a hint of something fragile he usually manages to keep at bay. It makes something hitch in Wonwoo’s chest. 

_ There’s plenty to like about you. I could make a list. _

“My roommate’s parents are visiting,” Wonwoo says. “He said he wouldn’t be around tonight. You can come up for a while if you want.”

*

There are two free chairs in Wonwoo’s room, and a fluffy carpet, but they both kick off their shoes and climb on his bed.

Sitting like that, legs crossed but knees touching, two lotus flowers face to face, there is nowhere to look but right at Junhui. In the dimly lit room his face is all angles, sharpness highlighted by the moon. 

“Tell me what you like about me, then,” Wonwoo presses with the childish insistence one can only possess under the influence. 

“When you smile,” Junhui retraces the bridge of Wonwoo’s nose upwards with his pointer finger, then the arch of his eyebrow. “Your eyes crinkle. Just like that,” he nods encouragingly when Wonwoo’s mouth splits into a grin. “It’s one of my favorite things about your face.” 

Wonwoo lets out a ragged, shaky breath. “Tell me another one.” 

Junhui lets his index drag downwards, trailing along the side of Wonwoo’s face, his cheek, his jawline, then migrate to his throat. He stays there, where the Adam’s apple is, silent for a fraction of second. 

“Your voice,” he says.

Every point of contact between them is scalding. Wonwoo wills his tone to stay even. “What about it?”

“It’s deep, but it’s never severe. It is… ah, I don’t know the word in Korean.” He looks at Wonwoo expectantly, like somehow maybe he’ll lock onto the frequency of Junhui’s brain and catch his meaning. “Comfortable,” he settles for eventually. “It is comfortable.”

“Tell me another one,” Wonwoo says again, but now his words are trembling. 

Junhui pushes himself up on his knees, slides his palm around Wonwoo’s neck, to cup his nape. 

“When you kiss me,” he whispers against Wonwoo’s mouth. “And the whole world narrows to just this, me and you.”

Wonwoo’s throat is desert-dry. “Jun-ah,” he says quietly, “We don’t do that anymore.” 

“It’s your focus,” Junhui ignores him. “It’s the same when you’re reading, or driving, or—”

With every syllable he pronounces his lips move against Wonwoo’s, and it is not quite a kiss but it is a terrible dance, and Wonwoo is many things but he is not a saint. 

Junhui moans low in his throat when they kiss for real, open-mouthed from the start, something raw and sexual about it. His other hand finds Wonwoo’s shoulder for purchase. 

“But I like it best,” he pants when they separate for air, and Wonwoo shakes his head in disbelief, _ how are you still thinking or forming words, _“I like it best when it’s on me,” Junhui finishes. 

Wonwoo chuckles, fondness like a flood, too much for his body to contain, for his skeleton to bear. “Attention whore.”

“Maybe,” Junhui smiles, and kisses him again, and he’s straddling Wonwoo’s lap now, fully. It’s the next logical move, really, for Wonwoo to grab his ass and bring him even closer. It’s the only thing that makes sense, to drink the gasps from his lips, to touch him, to touch him—

*

“And?” Seokmin asks, a glint to his eye Wonwoo does not like one bit. 

“And then we proceeded to grind against each other like teenagers and promptly pass out,” Wonwoo hisses through gritted teeth, “And in the morning when I woke up he was still asleep so I fled.”

Seokmin squints. “Didn’t you say this happened… in _ your _ room?”

“Yes,” Wonwoo glares. “Don’t focus on that.”

Seokmin is trying _ really _ hard not to laugh now. “You think the fact you walk-of-shamed out of your _ own room _is a minor detail?” 

“You’re not taking me seriously,” Wonwoo whines, burying his face in his hands. 

“It’s really hard to,” Seokmin huffs. “I would be a bad friend if I didn’t tell you you’re being a big baby.” 

“What am I supposed to do?”

Seokmin slurps the rest of his iced coffee through his straw. Wonwoo doesn’t know how he manages to drink cold stuff when it’s still so chilly outside. 

“I don’t know, hyung. What do you think you should do? What do you want to do? No one can answer these questions for you.”

Wonwoo raises his head again. “I want—I want stuff to stop being so confusing. I want him to tell me where we stand.”

It does make it clearer, voicing things out loud. He’s not where he was a year ago, lost in a battle with himself, so terrified of the unknown it didn’t matter much how others were treating him. He’s sure of himself now. 

“That’s a good start,” Seokmin says gently. 

“I’m sorry I called you in panic the morning after your birthday,” Wonwoo winces. 

“Oh, it’s okay,” Seokmin waves it off. “Minghao owes me morning sex, but other than that, it’s fine.”

“Seokmin,” Wonwoo grimaces, “I don’t want to know these things.”

Seokmin grins widely. “That’s exactly why I’m telling you. Now pay for my coffee and go talk to Junhui.” 

*

Junhui is still in Wonwoo’s room when Wonwoo gets back, still in Wonwoo’s _ bed. _He’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes, rumpled now, his hair sticking in every direction. 

He looks up when the door opens, eyes still sleepy. 

“You weren’t there when I woke up.”

“I had to clear my head,” Wonwoo says. He wants nothing more than to join him back under the covers, mold their bodies together. He forces himself to pull up a chair, sit opposite Junhui. 

“I don’t like that face,” Junhui says. He’s trying to sound teasing, but there’s an anxious edge to it. 

“I need to talk to you,” Wonwoo says. “It’s nothing terrible, but I really need to ask now, otherwise I’m going to make a mountain out of it in my own head again.”

“Okay,” Junhui says, looking down at his own hands. He’s playing absently with the hem of his shirt. There is a thread sticking out already. 

“Can you—just—I need to see your face for this.”

“Okay,” Junhui repeats. “Sorry, I’m bad at this.” 

Wonwoo wishes he could lighten the atmosphere, lift the evident weight from Junhui’s shoulders. This, maybe, might be what love boils down to; this constant desire to make things easier for Junhui no matter the situation, even if Wonwoo himself is struggling too. 

“What are we doing, Jun-ah? You said you didn’t want us to date, and I respect that, but you—you make it very hard for me to move on, do you understand?”

“I’m sorry,” Junhui says immediately. “I’m sorry for yesterday night, that was a mistake.”

“Maybe,” Wonwoo agrees. “It takes two to tango, I’m not gonna put all the blame on you.”

“I started it,” Junhui insists. “I know that’s a shitty excuse but I was really drunk, and you were right there, and I—I miss—”

He runs a nervous hand through his hair, pushes it off his forehead. 

“What do you miss, Junhui?”

The body is so, so honest, Wonwoo thinks. Junhui’s bottom lip is trembling, almost imperceptibly, but Wonwoo pays attention. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Junhui admits. There is too much space between them. It is necessary space, Wonwoo knows, but he still feels it like an ache in his side. 

“I don’t think it’s very complicated,” Wonwoo says. “We’re good together, Jun. And we feel awful when we’re apart.” 

“I don’t want things to change,” Junhui says in a very small voice. “If we try, and it goes wrong, then I’m going to lose you again, and I don’t want to go through that. I can’t go through that again.”

Wonwoo takes a breath, silent. His mother’s words ring in his mind. _ Things rarely stay the same, no matter how much we try to keep them that way. _

God, fuck the space, he thinks. One step, rolling the chair further, and he’s facing Junhui now, legs hitting the edge of the bed. Close enough to take his hand, kissing close. He does neither of these things, just speaks. 

“I think things have already changed,” he says softly. 

Junhui looks away, then back at him. “You’re still in love with me.”

It’s a statement, not a question, but it still demands an answer. “Yes,” Wonwoo nods. _ More than before, _ he doesn’t say. _ It grows every day and I don’t think I can stop it. I’m not sure I want to. _ “You’re in love with me too,” he says, because he’s sure of it now, and it needs to be vocalized. Junhui turns his face again. “We can try being just friends,” Wonwoo continues, “If that’s what you want. But you can’t have both, Jun. It’s not fair to me. You can’t sleep with me _ and _be my friend, not anymore.”

“I miss _ you,_” Junhui says, an edge of despair to his voice. “Not just the sex, but—you. And I know I said I was glad to be friends again, and that wasn’t a lie, but somehow it’s not enough, and I still miss you even though you’re right there. So I thought—I figured, maybe, you know. Fucking would make that easier. But it still feels like shit. I don’t know why it still feels like shit.” 

“You’re in love with me,” Wonwoo repeats. “It’s weird how awful that feels, yeah? Disney movies really don’t prepare you for this.”

“I don’t want to fuck this up,” Junhui whispers. “I’m really scared I did already.” 

“I fucked up first,” Wonwoo shakes his head. “I should have told you the truth instead of just, I don’t know, burning bridges like some sort of brooding asshole.” 

He touches their foreheads together. Junhui takes a deep, shaky inhale. 

“What now?” he asks when they separate.

“I don’t know, Junhui. The ball’s in your camp. You still haven’t given me an answer.”

“What would _ trying _even translate to? Do I take you out on dates? We take things slow? We make it Facebook official?”

The last one is clearly a joke, but Junhui does look legitimately lost. 

“I don’t think you and I know how to take things slow,” Wonwoo says. “But you are very welcome to take me to fancy places and pay the bill if that’s what your little heart desires,” he smiles. “I want to go dancing with you, and be the one to take you home at the end of the night. I want to kiss you in dark alleys where no one can see.” He takes a breath, gazes deep in Junhui’s eyes. “I want to call my mother and tell her about the boy I love. She’s going to ask if he loves me back.” 

The corners of Junhui’s eyes are glistening. 

“He does, Wonwoo. He does.” 

*

It’s a learning curve. He has to approach Junhui like a small wounded animal sometimes, careful not to spook him, and it takes some readjustment for Wonwoo to understand he holds the same kind of power over Junhui that Junhui does over him. 

They don’t tell anyone at first. It’s not really a question of hiding it, it’s more that their friends can be intense, and everyone has been very invested in this relationship from its inception, and Wonwoo is worried too much commotion is going to scare Junhui back into old habits. 

Minghao was right; Junhui doesn’t voice discomfort unprompted, and even if someone asks, he rarely discloses his actual emotional state on the spot. He retreats into his shell instead, closed off like a clam, not cold but _ reserved, _his armor covered in defensive spikes. Wonwoo discovers he has an advantage over most people here, because Junhui mellows to the touch, can be physically coaxed into opening up. He’ll talk after sex, in the obscurity of his room, as long as Wonwoo asks the right questions, lips moving against the hollow of Junhui’s throat, their bodies tangled together. 

Junhui tells him about liking boys in middle school, being cute enough to get invited to the winter formal by blushing girls but too weird to ever really be popular. He tells Wonwoo about high school, and never really being afforded the luxury of the closet, and how some words still cut like knives no matter how many times one hears them. He tells Wonwoo about how he thinks his parents know but no one really wants to talk about it. 

Wonwoo curls up around him, skin pressed against skin, and holds him tightly. 

Soonyoung finds out because Wonwoo forgets he’s in the room and leans down to kiss Junhui before leaving for class one time. Junhui’s fingers curl around his wrist, and Wonwoo parts his lips with his tongue to kiss him deeper, and Soonyoung whistles. They both turn around to stare at him with wide eyes, caught red-handed. 

“I’ve been suspecting for days,” Soonyoung rolls his eyes. “He,” he points to Wonwoo, “Gets _ way _ too happy when he’s getting laid. He was smiling after his English to Korean translation class, he never does that, he _ hates _translation.” 

Minghao is affronted when he learns he wasn’t the first to be made aware. He also insists on giving Wonwoo the _ real _shovel talk, which mainly consists of him making increasingly elaborate threats while Junhui, who demanded to be present, loses his shit in the background. 

Wonwoo does call his mother. 

“You asked if I was seeing anyone,” he says into the receiver, low, a little bit unsure. 

“Yes,” she says, voice light. He can picture her easily, in the living room, legs folded under her on the leather sofa. It’s early in the afternoon, his father is still at work and Bohyuk off at school. 

“There’s this boy,” Wonwoo starts. 

“Yes,” she says again. “I could tell.” 

He laughs weakly. “You could?”

“Call it a mother’s intuition,” she chuckles. “That, and you kept looking at your phone last time you were home.” 

His heart is beating loud inside his chest, drum-like. He’s so lucky, he realizes. 

“I love you, mama,” he has to tell her. 

“I know, baby,” she says fondly. “Tell me about your boy.” 

He doesn’t know how to describe Junhui in a way that does him justice. Words are supposed to be his forte but they fall short here, no adjective is enough.

“He made me vegetable soup last winter when I was sick,” he tells her instead. “He gets mad when I forget my umbrella. When he sees me the first thing he does is rearrange my collar. He talks to cats in the street.”

“I’d like to meet him, one day,” she says. He can hear the smile in her voice. He kind of wants to cry, but he doesn’t feel sad. 

“I think I’m going to tell dad when I come home in the Summer,” he says. “That—that I’m bi.”

He’s never used that word out loud before. The skies don’t part. The world doesn’t end. It’s almost disappointingly uneventful. 

*

“I’ll take you to Shenzhen one day. You’d like it there, I think. My mom would love you, you’re so polite.”

Junhui is wearing a surgical mask to protect his lungs from the springtime wave of pollution, but his smile reaches his eyes. 

“I’d like that very much,” Wonwoo says, trying his best not to grin like a lovestruck idiot. He _ feels _like a lovestruck idiot. “You should come to Changwon, then. My mom wants to meet you.”

“Deal,” Junhui says happily. He pulls Wonwoo by the end of his sleeve, makes him walk faster. They only have forty five minutes of their lunch break left and he apparently really wants bubble tea from that one specific place. 

Dating Junhui, Wonwoo has discovered, mostly means Junhui texting him cat videos at undue hours captioned _ black cat=you other cat=me, _and biweekly trips to Junhui’s favorite boba tea store, and all their friends making retching sounds when they kiss in front of them. 

(It also means getting to see Junhui when he wakes up, still bleary-eyed and confused, beautiful and pliant. It also means late nights and hushed whispers and the tight heat of Junhui’s mouth around him, and Wonwoo’s hands twisting in the bed sheets, hoarse curses. It also means quiet afternoons and Wonwoo’s head on Junhui’s thighs, Junhui’s fingers in his hair, the motion tender and soothing while Junhui reads and Wonwoo rests his eyes before going back to his homework. 

It also means—)

*

“Wonwoo-ya,” Junhui says, pressing hot kisses to Wonwoo’s shoulder, “Wonwoo-ya, can I fuck you?”

“Fuck,” Wonwoo rasps, and he thinks about it. He thinks about it, but mainly he thinks about how to say yes. He already knows he’s going to say yes. 

“I like that I’m the first,” Junhui says. His lips are like a brand. “I want to be the first for everything. I want to be the first always,” he takes Wonwoo’s hand in his, turns it around, licks a stripe on the inside of his wrist where his pulse beats fast fast fast. “But I missed quite a few,” he continues, “And now I have to make up for that.” 

First time, Wonwoo thinks. First love. These are the only firsts that matter. First heartbreak, too, but even that he’ll gladly give to Junhui. 

“You can have this one,” he says instead of letting all of that pour out, _ take it, take everything. Take even the other times, the ones before you. Retroactively they are yours. _

“I can,” Junhui says, delighted. “Baby,” he murmurs that one word in Chinese, “I’m gonna make you feel so good.” 

The first finger just feels weird. Not bad, not good, just foreign. The lube isn’t cold because Junhui is thoughtful like that, but the intrusion still makes Wonwoo shiver. 

“You have to relax, sweetheart,” Junhui says kindly. “Let me in.” 

“You make it look real easy,” Wonwoo whines. 

“I love taking your cock,” Junhui says, planting a kiss on the inside of Wonwoo’s knee, like he’s discussing the goddamn weather. Wonwoo’s face is burning. He doesn’t know how Junhui can say shit like that with a straight face. “It can feel so good, but baby, you have to want it. If you don’t,” he kisses Wonwoo’s leg again, “That’s fine, you can do me instead. Or you can fuck my mouth, whatever you want.”

“I want you,” Wonwoo shakes his head, “I want you to. Just—go slow.”

“Okay,” Junhui says agreeably, and he’s so sweet, he’s so sweet, Wonwoo doesn’t think he can take it. 

He mouths at the base of Wonwoo’s dick lazily, and the distraction works, heat flooding Wonwoo’s system and taking over. The second finger goes in smoother, and now he can really feel the stretch. It’s still not bad, definitely not _ good _ though, and if he thinks about it too much he knows he’ll start freaking out. The concept of Junhui _ in him _though, that is unbelievably sexy, so he focuses on that instead. 

And then Junhui does _ something, _ touches _ something, _and Wonwoo never was the type to stick forks into electric sockets as a kid but he thinks it might have felt something like that, current zapping through his body, his bones catching fire, every single muscle tensing. Above him Junhui is grinning Cheshire-like. 

“Jackpot.”

“What the fuck,” Wonwoo gasps, but at the exact same moment Junhui does the thing again so the _ fuck _part comes out elongated and terribly high pitched. 

“We just found your prostate, baby,” Junhui announces proudly. “Welcome to the joys of anal sex!”

“I’m going to kill you,” Wonwoo says, but he’s not quite sure why. Then, “Holy fucking _ shit._”

“Oh, you’re _ so _sensitive,” Junhui says, delighted. He curls his fingers one more time, sending sparks through every neurotransmitter in Wonwoo’s body. 

“God,” Wonwoo pants, the words trickling out without him really intending to, “Do that again, fuck, please don’t stop.”

Junhui arches an elegant eyebrow. He seems endlessly amused by the whole thing, but his eyes are also very, very dark. “You want to come like that, baby?”

Wonwoo frowns. “Shit, can I?”

“Most likely,” Junhui nods. “But not today,” he decides on the spot. “Next time,” he promises. “Next time I’m gonna eat you out, lick you open until you’re ready for me, begging for it, and then I’m going to make you come on my fingers before I fuck you.”

“Shit,” Wonwoo moans, strangled. His spine is a column of molten lava. He wants to touch himself but he’s not sure he’s allowed, and above all he wants to make Junhui happy, wants to make this good. “Jun, please.”

“What do you want, baby? You gotta ask for it.”

“I’m going to kill you,” he says again. “I don’t know, please, just do something.”

Junhui wraps a hand around him and strokes him leisurely, and while it sends sparks of pleasure through Wonwoo’s body it doesn’t satisfy the _ ache, _ this strange craving for _ more. _

“Oh,” he hiccups, hips bucking up, something clicking in his brain as Junhui crooks his fingers inside him once again. “Oh my God, I’m ready, you can—please—”

Junhui carefully removes his fingers, reaches for the bottle of lube on the nightstand again. Wonwoo is back to feeling weird, the _ emptiness _disconcerting, but he’s also so turned on he’s leaking precome against his belly, so it’s hard to find the focus to complain. 

Junhui unrolls a condom and spreads more lube over his cock then lifts Wonwoo’s right leg up to rest on his shoulder, kissing his calf. “This okay?” he asks, voice soft. “I want to see you.”

Wonwoo nods, grabs a pillow to tuck under himself. He knows how all this works in theory. They’ve done it enough times the other way around that none of what they’re doing is _ unfamiliar, _ exactly; but at the same time Wonwoo really does feel like a virgin, as ridiculous as it sounds. He’s both nervous and incredibly _ wired up, _which really doesn’t help with the nerves because now he’s also worried about lasting two seconds. 

Junhui slides inside him slowly, inch by inch, giving him the time to get used to the intrusion. 

It feels—a lot thicker than his fingers. Wonwoo makes himself exhale, unlocks his jaw. It takes him a second to realize he’s gripping Junhui’s forearm very tightly, nails digging into muscle. 

“Wonwoo,” Junhui breathes out, and he clearly sounds strained for the first time in the evening. 

Wonwoo tentatively rolls his hips. The motion makes Junhui swear loudly, and then he’s moving too. 

The first real thrust punches the oxygen from Wonwoo’s lungs. 

“Oh,” he gasps, surprised. 

“Yeah?” Junhui grins, fucking into him again. 

Wonwoo doesn’t know how to describe it. It’s a little like being turned inside out, except that sounds horrifying put into words. What he means is that it’s a revelation. 

Junhui fucks him slow at first, deep but _ so slow, _eyes trained on Wonwoo’s face. For a moment the only sounds in the room are the squelch of the lube, the slap of flesh against flesh, and Wonwoo’s ragged breaths. 

Then Junhui grabs him by the hips and pulls him back onto his cock, shifting the angle, and Wonwoo _ shouts. _

He’d be more embarrassed if he wasn’t too busy bracing himself against the headboard to avoid being knocked into it. Junhui does it again, finds a new, much faster rhythm, and Wonwoo throws his head back and lets the harsh _ fullness _ of it overwhelm him, metronome beat. It becomes _ very _hard to keep quiet. 

“My neighbors, baby,” Junhui warns, but he’s smiling. 

Wonwoo curls a hand around his nape, brings him down for a kiss, both to keep himself from making too much noise and because he wants to kiss him, he wants him close enough to share air, and then maybe even closer. 

Junhui kisses his mouth, and then his chin, and then the line of his jaw, bites down gently there. He drags his lips along the side of Wonwoo’s neck, licks over his Adam’s apple, sucks a series of bruises above his collarbones. 

It’s tender and unhurried, contrasts with the unforgiving piston of his thrusts. Every time he rocks forward the head of his cock grinds against Wonwoo’s prostate and pleasure spikes through Wonwoo’s body, sharp hot lines shooting up. 

“Jun,” he rasps, “Junhui, I need—”

“Touch yourself,” Junhui nods, grunting. “I wanna see you.” 

He watches with hungry eyes as Wonwoo jerks himself off, tempo matching Junhui’s thrusts, moans spilling steadily from his throat now. 

“Shit,” Junhui tenses, head dropping, “Wonwoo, baby, I’m sorry, I’m gonna come.”

Teeth sunk into his bottom lip in concentration, blond hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, he’s the most attractive sight Wonwoo has ever laid eyes upon. Wonwoo traces two fingers down the side of his face and Junhui turns to kiss his fingertips, eyelashes fluttering shut. 

“It’s okay,” Wonwoo coaxes. “Let go.”

He feels it when Junhui comes, even with the condom, pulsing hot inside him. It is simultaneously strange and exhilarating. Junhui buries his face in his chest, panting.

He pulls out cautiously, supporting his weight on his forearms above Wonwoo. Wonwoo winces at the sudden emptiness, then hiccups when Junhui wraps his hand around his cock. 

“_Please_,” he begs. His brain is hazy with the pressing need to come, urgency in his veins like scalding liquid. 

“I got you,” Junhui presses a quick kiss to his lips and then he slithers down his body, takes the tip of Wonwoo’s cock in his mouth, and slides three fingers back inside him in one swift motion. 

“_Fuck_,” Wonwoo hisses. 

Junhui likes to tease, but he also knows how to get straight to the point when it’s needed. He bobs his head up and down methodically, takes as much as he can without choking, smooth velvety heat enveloping Wonwoo’s dick. He fucks Wonwoo with his fingers fast and rough, focused on hitting his prostate with every flick of his wrist. Wonwoo spreads his legs further, lets the fire build back up in his belly. He feels so… _ open. _ Yielding—the contrast with earlier staggering, all tension drained from his muscles, Junhui’s fingers disappearing easily inside him, wet and messy and so, _ so _good. 

“Fuck,” he swears again, feeling his body contract, “Jun—”

Junhui takes him as deep as he can, lips sealed around his shaft, and Wonwoo comes down his throat in a strangled shout. 

Junhui eases his fingers out of him, presses hot kisses to the inside of his thigh and nuzzles there until Wonwoo’s legs stops trembling. He comes back up and slots his face in the crook of Wonwoo’s neck, and stays there, breath coming out short and warm.

Wonwoo tries catching his own, staring up at the ceiling. Junhui’s arm comes to rest over his chest. 

“That was good,” Wonwoo says after a while, voice coming out a little cracked. 

“Mmh,” Junhui agrees. “Did you like it better?”

“Than topping?” Wonwoo thinks about it for a second. “Yeah,” he decides. “I think so.” 

“Okay,” Junhui suppresses a yawn in the middle of the word. He sounds content. His sentences always lift in the end when he’s happy, a certain music to his voice. Wonwoo rolls on his side to face him, still under his arm. Like that their noses are almost touching. This, somehow, feels just as intimate as sex if not more. 

He kisses the mole above Junhui’s lips, aerial. Junhui giggles. 

“I know you know,” he says. “But I love you.”

He doesn’t say it often. Neither does Wonwoo, for that matter, although he does write it a lot. Texts it unthinking, _ Good luck on that test, love you! Can you bring me my grey scarf? Thx. Love you. Don’t forget that thing at Seokmin’s tonight is at seven, love you. You’re gonna ace that presentation!! I love you!! _

“I do know,” he says softly. 

One of them should get up soon, bring a washcloth, honestly probably strip the bed altogether, and also close the window. The light from the 24/7 convenience store shines directly through, harsh and fluorescent. Wonwoo sighs, melts further into the mattress. His bones feel as if made of lead. 

“I’ll try to always remind you,” Junhui murmurs, gentle in the dark. 

Wonwoo closes his eyes and thinks, all this can wait. This is the only thing that matters. 

Everything else can wait. 

***

  
  
  
_we_ _love_ _each_ _other, precious_

_precious_

— anne sexton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [33 SCREAMING FROGS] we did it folks! when i started writing this i mostly had no idea where it was going and what i was going to do with it. 29k words later it is, if not my favorite fic i've ever written, maybe the dearest to my heart. thank you for embarking on this adventure with me! your comments have been a particular joy to read on this one. i look forward to hearing what you thought of the last chapter T__T 
> 
> all my gratitude to the air venus gang—i am still mystified by the way your little hearts work. thank you for all the insight, hand-holding, and cheering. i couldn't have done this without you.  
and to D, for being the backbone of both this universe and my life in general. 
> 
> love you all! see you soon!

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! kudos and comments make the author very happy ❤️

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [get it on (nobody but me)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21372193) by [nfwmb (earthshaker)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthshaker/pseuds/nfwmb)


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